Category Archives: Fiction

She Was Laid To Rest

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Photo by Robert P. Culver

Celtic Moon by Robert P. Culver

I received the call very late at night, long after I went to bed. Long after, I finally fell asleep. I heard the phone ringing. But my mind refused to acknowledge it. We all know that good news never arrives after midnight. And this call was no exception to that maxim.

In the morning, after my first cup of coffee, I notice the message light on my phone is blinking. I look at the caller ID. It’s my Great Aunt Maeve’s number. I can’t remember the last time I heard from her. The fact is, I thought she died decades ago. I haven’t kept in touch with that side of the family. Too Catholic, you know. Too old school. Too judgmental.

My life choices would not bear scrutiny. Not that I’m a serial killer or anything that drastic. Just that, well, let’s say I believe the ten commandments have some flexibility in them, some leeway, if you know what I mean. For instance, it’s not that bad to lie as long as you aren’t hurting anyone with that lie. It’s not that bad if you steal, as long as it isn’t hurting anyone personally. And if the money isn’t missed by anyone, then what’s the harm?

Besides, the church doesn’t believe in drinking or playing the horses or gambling at all, for that matter, unless it’s Bingo. But really, how is that any of their business anyway? What’s the problem with the occasional pint, or ten pints for that matter? Isn’t hurting anyone else, is it? No, of course, it isn’t. Get over yourself. Mind your own business. That’s what I say. Mind your own damn business.

I push the message button.  It isn’t my Great Aunt Maeve. It’s her granddaughter Katie. I always had kind of a crush on her. She was a real Irish beauty back in the day. Hair down to her waist, as dark as coal and so thick your fingers would get lost in it. Her eyes, well, they were that shade of blue that looks like blue ice. Light blue, deep as the ocean. You could drown in those eyes. Her body was a young man’s dream. Sometimes I couldn’t get to sleep at all at night just from thinking about her.

“What’s that, you say? Isn’t she’s your cousin?” Yeah, sure, she’s my cousin. But not my first cousin. What’s the harm, I say? We were young, and it was all very innocent — just a kiss or two, nothing more. Oh, get over yourself.

Anyway, Katie is letting me know that Aunt Maeve has passed over to the great beyond. She tells me the funeral is in three days. And, of course, after the funeral will be the traditional Irish Wake. Well, ordinarily, I avoid funerals like the plague. But an Irish Wake well that I wouldn’t miss even if it were going to be my own goddamn wake. Especially then, I guess. She tells me that the funeral is at 10:30 on Friday morning at Holy Mackerel Church. OK, so that’s not the real name.

It’s really called St. Patrick’s. It’s in Gloucester City, NJ. Don’t let anyone ever tell you the Irish have any creativity. Every other church and child’s name is Patrick. Even after the church admitted, there never was a real St. Patrick. They just continued naming every child and church after him. The Irish lot is about as stubborn as they get; don’t let anyone tell you any differently.

Well, no doubt about it, I was going to have to fortify myself in the next couple of days with some good booze and beer. If I am going to survive a week with my family. I’ll have to be good and drunk and stay that way if my psyche will survive the inquisition that every cousin, aunt, or uncle is going to put me through. But, not to worry, I’ve had years of practice — years of training. I’m up to the challenge. Ready or not, here I come.

So here I’m on my way to the funeral. I have Radar Love cracked up as high as possible. I get off the freeway to buy a six-pack of Old Milwaukee. Yeah, I know not a beer of choice unless you like the taste of armpit, but it brings you right down to earth. And that’s what you need when you are going to spend more than a week with the dearly departed and your loved ones.

As I pull off Route 130 onto Market Street in Gloucester, NJ, I have an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. It could be nausea, could be I drank too much. But I doubt that since I have a pretty high tolerance for alcohol in any form. As I see the house at the end of the street, I realize I feel like that kid I was long ago that left home at twenty. Angry, resentful, lonely.

Indeed, I didn’t come back as a war hero or successful businessman.  But hell, I’m a tin knocker. When I work, I make pretty decent money. When I don’t, I live on unemployment until the Union calls me back. That’s life if you work in construction.

I pull my 1971 El Camino next to the curb and stare over at the house. It looks the same. It’s a two-story stucco with faded shutters and a red front door with black hinges. My Uncle Hugh just loved to paint everything black and red. He was quite the character. Heavyset with those light blue eyes. And could be mean as a snake if you got on his wrong side. He was the one that caught Katie and me kissing on the couch in the basement.

The lilac bush was overgrown, and the grass hadn’t been cut in a long time.

But still, it’s the house where I spent most of his youth. My Aunt Maeve took care of me every summer. She fed me Lebanon bologna and cheese. Or sometimes fried bologna sandwiches with chicken noodle soup. Every Sunday, she made a different kind of cake for dessert. My favorite was chocolate cake with vanilla icing sprinkled with shredded coconuts. It was the only day they ate roast beef and noodles. I can almost smell it while I stand here on the porch.

I have my hand poised, ready to knock, but at the last moment, I grasp the doorknob and turn it. The door opens, and I hear a chorus of voices all talking at the same time. Aunt Aileen yells out,” it’s our Danny standing at the door like a stranger. ”Come in, come in and give us a kiss for the love of god. Has the cat got your tongue?”

“Hello, Aunt Aileen. It’s been a long time. You look great.”

“Oh, get on with you. You must have kissed the blarney stone. Say hello to your Uncle Pat.”

“Hello, Uncle Pat.”  He’s sitting on an ancient upholstered rocking chair. There’s duct tape holding it together. He’s even fatter than I remember. He’s wearing a red and white striped shirt with a pocket. In the pocket are his Pall Mall cigarettes. He lost all of his hair, which was thinning even back when I was a kid. I can smell the nicotine on him from two feet away. The lampshade on the coffee table next to him is stained yellow from years of exposure to Uncle Pat’s smoking unfiltered Pall Malls.

“Well, I may have put on a pound or two. You’re a grown man Danny, but I would have recognized you anywhere. So, what have you been up to? What kind of work are you doing these days?”

“I’m a tin knocker, Uncle Pat, just like my dad. I’m sorry I didn’t come back for his funeral. I didn’t hear about it until long after. I was in the middle of moving at the time. And staying with a friend. I should have kept in touch.”

“Well, you’re here now. That’s all that matters. Sit down, take a load off.  Your Aunt Aileen will get you something to eat. There’s enough to feed an army, as usual. I hope you brought your appetite with you. You’re a bit on the scrawny side, if you don’t mind me saying. But your Aunt Aileen will fill you out, don’t you worry. She’ll be right back with a plate.”

Danny plops down on the couch. He could swear it was the same couch he remembered from his childhood. They must have finally taken the plastic cover off.  He looks around the room, and there’re some familiar faces. Older than he remembered, but still, he would know them anywhere. Danny doesn’t see Katie anywhere. Maybe she’s in the kitchen. It’s loud in here.  Irish music is playing in the background. He thinks it’s the Clancy Brothers. When he was a teenager, he couldn’t stand hearing all the Irish tunes.

At that moment, he hears his Aunt Liz calling out, “Danny, Danny, my boy, where is he? Oh, there you are. Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Come here, give us a hug.”

Danny stands up and walks over to her and is crushed in her bosomy embrace. When he catches his breath, he looks up at her. Her face bears the weight of the years and all the pain she has to carry.” “Hello, Aunt Liz, it’s good to see you. It’s been a long time. You look good. Is Katie here? I haven’t seen her?”

“Oh, sure, she’ll be here in a  shake of a lamb’s tail.  Oh, I’ve forgotten how you two used to be as thick as thieves when you were kids. I’m so happy you came. I wish you had come back before Maeve left us. She talked about you all the time, and you were the light of her life. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me and you can fix a plate? You look half-starved, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Danny follows his Aunt Liz into the kitchen. It looks as if time has stood still in this kitchen. It’s still painted a cream-colored stained with years of nicotine. The linoleum floor remained in the orange and brown checkered board pattern. Tracks are worn into the tile surface from forty years of foot traffic.

Danny walks over to the narrow cabinet next to the refrigerator and opens it. The ironing board is still neatly hidden within its depths. The General Electric refrigerator had been replaced by a more recent and larger one. And the chandelier which once graced the ceiling is now a fluorescent light fixture. Danny’s Uncle Hugh had an artistic streak and often replaced everyday household items with his creations.

Take a load off Danny. Danny pulls out the chair and sits down. His Aunt puts a plate down in front of him. Danny looks down, and his plate is so full there isn’t an inch of space that isn’t covered with food. He picks up his fork and starts shoveling it in. He hadn’t eaten a home-cooked meal in years. Mostly his diet consisted of fast food and bologna and cheese sandwiches, followed by a six-pack of Michelob.

When he looks up again, everyone is staring at him because his plate is entirely empty. And they all start laughing. Danny is embarrassed at first, but then he too joins in the laughter. He didn’t realize how hungry he had been.

“Well, you poor thing, are you still hungry? Do you want some dessert? We have some homemade chocolate cake with vanilla icing with coconut on top. What do you say?”

“I’m pretty full, but yeah, I would love a piece of homemade cake.”

His Aunt Liz hands him a huge piece of cake, and a cup of coffee, so strong Danny tastes the caffeine before he swallows any. After he finishes, he rubs his stomach and exhales. “ God, that was the best meal I’ve had in years. Probably since the last time I ate since the last time I was here. Thanks so much.”

As Danny looked around at all the faces at the table, he noticed there were tears on his Aunt’s and Uncle’s cheeks. At the same time, he realizes there are tears running down his own cheeks.

His Aunt Liz comes over and hugs him. “Oh, Danny, we have all missed you so much. It’s sad that losing Maeve’s passing is what it took for us to get you back. But I know that she would be thrilled to see you sitting back at her table.”

Danny looked up at her. ”Aunt Liz, I didn’t realize how much I missed all of you. Aunt Maeve was the closest thing I had to a mother. I guess I couldn’t get over all the anger I had when I left. I just wanted to block out all the angry words between my dad and me. And then he died, and I felt so guilty. That I hadn’t come back and made it right, I couldn’t face the funeral. I’m glad I come back now. It’s hard to be in the world without anyone caring what happens to you.”

“Oh, Danny, we did care. We all love you. We never stopped. OK, no more tears today. Let’s try to remember the good times we all had with Maeve.”

The next morning Danny comes downstairs from his old bedroom dressed for the funeral and feels a sudden emptiness.  On some level, he was expecting his Aunt Maeve to be sitting at the table drinking her tea and reading the paper. He did hear his Uncles and Aunts talking quietly together. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.

“Good morning Danny, how did you sleep? I guess your childhood bed was a bit uncomfortable for you.”

“I slept fine. I fell right to sleep and slept through the night. What time will we be leaving for the funeral?”

“In an hour. Danny, we would like it if you were one of the pallbearers, and I would like you to get up and say a few words about Maeve. You were such a big part of her life. She would have liked that. What do you have to say?”

“Well, I’m not much on public speaking, but yeah, I’d like to say a few words. After we eat, I’ll go upstairs and write down some of my memories of Aunt Maeve. I hope I don’t mess it up.”

“Danny, just speak from your heart. You never had any faith in yourself. But we do. We always did.”

“OK, I will do my best, Uncle Hugh.”

After breakfast, Danny went upstairs and started thinking about his Aunt Maeve and how much she meant to him. And how much she had loved him and accepted him just the way he was. If it hadn’t been for her, Danny would have left long before he got out of high school. His father was a falling-down drunk and used him as a punching bag. His mother had left when he was about three or four. He had very few memories of her at all.

Without his Aunt Maeve, he wouldn’t have survived his childhood. As he thought about that, he realized how much he missed by not keeping in touch with her for the past ten years. He can’t do anything about the past. But he can do something about the here and now. He starts writing.

It’s time for Danny to step up to the pulpit. He clears his throat and looks up and out at all the people who came to acknowledge his Aunt Maeve’s passing but also celebrate her life. He sees his cousin Katie in the first row. She nods at him and lifts her chin up. It’s a signal they used to use to give each other support. When they were young and, things got tough. He lifted his chin to her.

“Good morning, everyone. We are all gathered here to mourn the loss of someone dear to us, someone we will all miss. She will leave an empty space in our lives that she used to fill. But I hope we can fill that space with all the loving memories we have of Aunt Maeve.

For me, she was that safe place I could go when I felt all alone and unloved. She would cook a hot meal. She always gave me a warm and loving hug and a kiss on my cheek. She assured me that I was a person of value. And that I was someone that she loved and would always love, no matter what. She accepted me for who I was and never told me I wasn’t good enough, not smart enough, or not good-looking enough. She held my hand and warmed my heart.

My life was richer for having known her. When I talked to her, she listened. She heard and cared. She was never too busy. She was always there for me. I can see by the way you are nodding your heads that she did the same thing for each of you. We were blessed by having to know her. She was both strong and soft at the same time. I can only hope that someday I can inspire someone else the way she inspired me always to work hard and do my best. So, as we go forward in our lives, let us keep her in our hearts and minds. I know she will be traveling with me throughout my journey through life. I will always feel her by my side, and I will never be alone again.

AS THE CROW FLIES

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I woke up abruptly this morning. I heard something tapping on my bedroom window. I tried to ignore it for quite a while. I put my pillow over my head. I plug my ears. The noise is relentless. My bedroom is on the second floor. So really, who could be knocking on the window? A window washer, Superman, a drone. Oh no, perhaps it’s a second-story man.  All highly unlikely suspects. I toss and turn and try to fall back to sleep. No luck, I’m wide awake. And once that happens, I have to get up. I  walk over to the window and throw open the curtains.

CROW by Capri 23auto

I’m startled. I see a Crow with bright, black eyes staring back at me. He begins tapping on the window. Tap,   tap. tap. I tap back. Tap.  Tap.Tap. He’s hanging on the screen.  “Hello,” I yell loudly. He opens his beak wide. I believe he might be saying hello back to me.  I smile. He opens his beak again. And then tap.  Tap, tap. What does it mean? He flies away and lands in the Dogwood Tree that I planted next to my Koi pond last year. It’s just now beginning to bloom—my favorite tree.

I’ve always been very fond of birds. I think you might call it some kind of harmless obsession. I’m a painter, and almost all my paintings have birds in them.  I spend a great deal of time in my garden, planting flowers that will attract birds and butterflies, and bees. I have nesting boxes and bird feeders all over my yard.

But all that is beside the point.  I have enjoyed my momentary interaction with the Crow. Since I’m awake, I decide to get an early start on my day. I dress and go into my studio and continue working on my latest painting. Several pleasant hours pass by. I notice a growling noise. It’s my stomach; I realize that it’s nearly lunchtime, and I haven’t eaten anything yet today.

I rummage around inside my frig and decide to heat some vegetable soup. That I made yesterday, it’s a gorgeous sunny, Spring day I choose to go outside to my screened porch and eat my soup and crackers. I take a deep breath. The air is sweet and fresh.

I so enjoy watching the birds fly from one feeder to another. There are six Cardinals at the feeder next to the back fence. I notice that a Blue Bird and her mate are building a nest inside the Blue Birdhouse. I smile. What could be better than this? I look forward to seeing them raise a family there. Spring, by far, is my favorite season. It inspires hope when the earth wakes up from its wintery sleep. It inspires hope as all new beginnings do.

As I sit on my porch, I think, what could be better than this? I finish my soup, and I must admit it’s delicious. Nothing tastes better than something made from vegetables that you grow in your garden from seed. As I’m about to go back to the house, I notice a crow in the cul-de-sac. He’s standing in the middle and is bowing over and over again. Four crows are walking in a circle around him. It looks so absurd that I burst out laughing. I wonder if he’s the same crow that was taping on my window early this morning. Perhaps he’s the King of the Crows.

The next morning, I’m still fast asleep. And I hear a tapping noise once again. I groan and look over at the clock. It’s 6:45 am. I pull my pillow over my head so as not to hear the tapping. It’s relentless. I can still hear it. Tap.  Tap.Tap. I throw my legs over the side of the bed and walk over to the window. And Pull the curtains aside. And behold, it’s the King of Crows. Once again, tapping on my bedroom window. As I study him, I realize that he isn’t the uniform black that I first observed. He had a light violet on his torso. And his wings were a fantastic, greenish-blue.

“What? What are you trying to tell me? Please stop waking me up so early in the morning. I realize he can’t hear me through the closed window. I open it up slightly. He begins to caw loudly. I still don’t understand what he wants me to do. I decide to do some research on Crows that will enlighten me on this behavior.

The next morning, I wake up bright and early. I wonder if the Crow will tap at my window. I’m somewhat disappointed when he doesn’t arrive. I get up and walk over to the window. I pull one of the curtains back just far enough to the lookout. My crow is hanging on the window screen.  He looks directly at me. I see his beak opening up wide. I know he‘s cawing at me. I decide that this is just his way of saying Good morning or hello. I laugh. He opens his beak again.

He flies away, and I  watch as he lands one again in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Four crows fly down from the forty-foot evergreens on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac. They form a circle around him once again, and he bows as they circle him. I open the window, and I hear him cawing. The four other crows join in. It’s a mysterious ceremony. I feel a compulsion to join in. I know it’s absurd, but still, I want to do it. Perhaps I was a crow in a former life? Then I say out loud, “former life, I’m losing it. I’m going off the deep end.” I’m spending too much time alone in my studio. I need to get out more. See more people, join in. Go to the gym. Something.

I end up going to the library and researching Crows. I know I can find information about them online. But then I wouldn’t be getting out of the house, would I? And I would also miss going to my favorite place in the world, the library. Yes, that’s right, the library. I have memories of a lifetime of experiences within the walls and between the stacks at my childhood library, the library in my college, and of course, my local library. The bastion of knowledge, a literary jackpot. The somewhat cheesy smell and touch of old books, ink on paper. The oily residue of a hundred hands.  Old books have their history. How many people have touched the pages, digested the words? The possibilities are endless. For me, it is a sanctuary, a respite. Yes, even nirvana.

I decided I should approach the research librarian. I’m somewhat ambivalent though I have a fierce love of the library and its contents. I fear the librarians. It has been my experience that librarians are not social creatures. I believe they each chose this calling because they don’t care about interacting with their fellow human beings. And that is precisely why they chose this line of work. Because they thought mistakenly, they would spend their entire working lives with their beloved books. But alas no. They soon realized that they would be interacting with people. Beings capable of disrupting the quiet. They might become noisy, even boisterous at times. And god forbid dogearing the pages and most hideous of all desecrating these sacred volumes by marking the pages.

I stealthily approach the research librarians’ desk. She has her head down. Several ancient-looking tomes are open on her desk, and she’s running her index finger along the line of printed words. She is scrupulously not to touch the page lest oil from her hands’ mar, its precious surface. I consider telling her to use finger cots, but I imagine she might slap me for making such a crude suggestion. As if I might be suggesting she use a condom.

“Excuse me,” I say in a voice hardly louder than a whisper. “Excuse me.” No response. I clear my throat several times. Nothing. I say in a somewhat louder tone, “Hello, madam, could you please help me. I need some assistance. I wish there were a bell on the desk. But no such luck. I imagine she may stroke out if I did ring a bell. She slowly raises her head. She gives me a cold, dead stare. Her eyes are pinned on me. I fear she might make a sudden move and attack me in some way.

“Yes.”

I smile, my very friendliest smile. One that I reserve for dogs and babies. A smile that rarely fails to ingratiate me. It does not affect her. She continues to stare. It’s unnerving; I decide just to jump in and spill it all out at once. “Could you please help me find information about the crows that live in this section of the country?”

She begins by typing rapidly on her computer. I wait patiently. After no more than a minute, she says, ”Corvus brachyrhynchoz, American Crow. Common to this area.”

“Can you tell me if you have any books in this library that I can take home to study?”

She accesses her computer once again. “No, not here. But I can put in a request from one of our other branches. If you give me your library card and contact information, I will notify you when we receive it at this branch. She slides me a form to fill out. I quickly do so. Then, she writes down some numbers on another paper and says abruptly, “here, go to the stacks listed on this paper, and you will find several books on birds that inhabit North Carolina. They’re reference books, but you can copy pages that interest you.”

She puts her head down; I’m dismissed. And I have disappeared from her conscious thoughts. I count my lucky stars. I come away from this interaction relatively unscathed. I look at the call numbers for the books. And I’m off to the reference section of the library. I notice that my teeth are clenched and my shoulders hunched. I take several breaths and try to relax. At one time, I had considered becoming a librarian. I can see that I would then have become a clone to this woman. And I don’t know for sure if that would have been a good thing or a bad thing.

I find the books noted on the paper and sit down for several hours immersed in my current obsession, the Crow. It’s fascinating.  I wonder where this experience will take me. I could study this particular species and be done with it. Or perhaps once I read about it, I’ll then want to observe the “Crows” behavior. Or maybe I’ll take it further. There’s no knowing at this point. But I have been down this path before. And have only regretted it once before. Only time will tell.

After spending numerous hours reading about crows, I realize that this will become a long-term project. OK, some may call it an obsession. But I say tomato, tomato—same difference. I would spend the evening creating my strategy, and tomorrow I would begin.

I set my alarm for sunrise. Last night I studied the research that I gleaned from my visit to the library. It was enlightening, to say the least. Most importantly, I have discovered that Crows are highly intelligent creatures. More intelligent than Parrots. They are capable of making and using rudimentary tools in their pursuit of food. They have phenomenal memories. They can distinguish and remember a human face over a long period even if they haven’t seen that face for several years.

They are known to ban together to mob predators and even humans that they consider a threat for some reason.  They mate for life, and both the male and female and older siblings care for the baby birds communally. And what I found most profound of all they mourn the death of a fellow crow, even if it was formerly unknown to them. And it’s at that point I know I have entered the first stage of a full-fledged obsession.  I welcome it. I’m never more complete than when I’m immersed, whether it be a new painting, creating a new garden, or solving a mystery.

Last night before I retired to my bed, I gathered different types of food that I believe would entice my new avian friend to stay longer at my window. And that I might become better acquainted with him. I had read during my research at the library that Crows are omnivorous. And they will eat whatever food is readily available. That could include anything from vegetables to insects. Or even dead animals and garbage.

I collect an assortment of food, from hard-boiled eggs to a spider I captured in my basement. I carefully placed it in a small cup that I attached to the siding underneath my bedroom window.

The following morning, I hear a scratching sound followed by cawing outside of my window. I carefully peek through the curtain. I see my crow studying the food cache I left for him. He’s eyeing it thoroughly, and then he reaches down and gingerly picks up a grape and eats it.  He looks directly at my face and caws. He picks up the piece of boiled egg and flies off with it in his beak. I watch him until he’s no longer in my field of vision.

Later that afternoon, I peek out the window. And I realize that all the food I left is gone. And in its’ place is something shiny. I shove the window open and pick it up. A small cut stone.  I realize it is an emerald. It looks familiar, somehow. I stare at it. And then it comes to me. It looks just like the emerald that I lost last Spring when I was working in the kitchen garden. I rush over to my jewelry box and pick up the ring that’s missing its stone. I remember how upset I was when I lost it. I looked everywhere for it. It was a birthday gift from my mother on my sixteenth birthday.

My mother passed away last summer. I put the stone in the setting. It fits perfectly. A wave of emotion fills me up, and tears flow out of my eyes. I feel like I have regained a little piece of my mother again. I can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day. I think that King Crow and I were somehow ordained to meet. And I’m somehow meant to help him someway in the future.

About a week later, I enjoyed a bowl of hot oatmeal on my back porch when I heard a loud ruckus. I realized that it’s a murder of Crows cawing at a hawk swooping down on a fledgling that’s eating seeds on the ground underneath my birdfeeder. I stand up and pick up my binoculars and look at the bird on the ground. It’s a fledgling crow.

I’m finally able to drive off the Hawk by walking around the back yard banging a pot and pan together. After I go back onto the porch, I sit and watch as four crows come down and surround the fledgling. They walk all around him bobbing their heads. I know he will be safe for now. But I have to come up with a plan to keep the hawk out of my pond and away from the crows.

I decided to create a scarecrow. I‘m going to dress the scarecrow in my old gardening clothes. I know the Crows recognize me and aren’t going to be scared away by a scarecrow, but the hawk would be. My Koi will be safe, and so will King Crow and the fledglings. I go into the garage and begin to build the frame for my scarecrow and put my old clothes on it. I have to admit it looks like a decent facsimile of me. I even put my old straw gardening hat on its head.

As I place the scarecrow near the back fence, I notice that at least a hundred crows are roosting in the trees in the woods behind my fence. They are cawing to one another. Then one crow flies down and lands on the ground about five feet away from the bird feeder. He watches me with great interest. He doesn’t leave until I start walking away. I look at him and bow, and he bows back. I‘m certain it’s King Crow. He caws loudly, and I caw at him. I walk back to my house and then turn and wave at the crows.  He brought the ring back to me, and I gave him and his fellow crows a haven. It’s. No one will ever convince me of anything different.

Rosie

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Camille packs the last of her belongings for her trip to North Carolina in the back of her fourteen-year-old Chevy van. She holds the checklist in her hand and checks off each item. The essential possessions in the van are the containers that will hold the cuttings that she hopes to collect during her journey.

Every winter evening, Camille sits in her favorite chair next to the crackling fireplace and plans her journey to a different part of the country. She hopes to visit every part of the United States before she passes from this life. This year’s destination is Wilson, North Carolina. She’ll be

Oakwood Cemetary by Robert Culver

traveling from her farm, outside of the little town of Dublin, Pennsylvania. She mapped out the stops along the route and programmed them into her GPS.

Before she pulls herself up into the front seat, she opens her purse and checks the contents, wallet, cell phone, checkbook, brush, and small sketchbook and drawing materials.

Her part-time employee Karen Nelson is going to be looking after the farm and house while she’s away. Karen is a  reliable woman. Camille knows she’ll take care of her property as if it’s her own. Karen has worked for Camille for almost ten years. Karen’s the closest thing to a friend that she has in her life.

Camille’s grandmother passed away fourteen years ago at eighty-five. Camille has lived a solitary life since then, but she never feels lonely. Time passes quickly for her. She enjoys working in the greenhouse and tending her garden. Her garden, she loves every inch of it as if it’s her child. The child she conceived and for which she has enduring love.

The garden is just beginning to shake off its wintery sleep. Soon the roses will sprout their leafy buds and begin their transition from thorny stems to glorious, fragrant, and delicate blooms. As she backs out of the driveway, she thinks about the journey ahead and the treasures she hopes to find.

As she climbs up into the van, she places her purse on the passenger seat and locks the doors. She gazes at her home and the surrounding property, takes a deep breath, and swallows hard. She feels tears welling up in her eyes. Although she looks forward to her journey each year, it’s hard for her to leave her roses and the only home she has ever known.

Last year Camille roamed her home state of Pennsylvania and visited all the abandoned cemeteries she knew about. She talked to the old folks in the neighboring towns. They reached back into their memories and told her about cemeteries they recalled from their long-ago childhoods. They related the tradition of visiting the graves of family members each year.

The whole family would pack a picnic lunch and head out to the cemetery for the day. They would remove debris and weeds and plant roses for their deceased loved ones. They would talk about the good times and how they missed them, knowing that they would all reunite once again in the hereafter.

Camille has come to love the visits to the cemeteries. Although most of the graveyards she visits have fallen into ruin, she feels almost a palatable sense that she’s taking a step back in time. She feels a connection to the past.

On her trip last year to Lycoming, Pennsylvania, she found that the woods had completely engulfed the cemetery. The headstones were worn down by years of rain, snow, and wind. The words were impossible to decipher. Lycoming had once been a booming coal-mining town, but is now deserted and has all but returned to wilderness.

Amongst the sixty-foot trees, she found a Cynthia Brook Rose. It had grown and flourished into a massive shrub despite being uncared for by any human hand. It had survived decades of harsh winters and summers that offered little respite from the high heat and little rain.

Camille took many cuttings and brought them home and had propagated over one hundred plants. The cabbagey flower was breathtaking, with warm orangey-yellow blooms. Its perfume had a sweet tea fragrance.

Camille begins her journey by the highway but will be traveling most of her way by dirt roads, studded with potholes. The early spring rains may make some of the country roads impassable. Her Chevy is old but sturdy and has spent most of its fourteen years on her own farm’s muddy and pitted dirt roads.

Her first stop is outside of Baltimore, Maryland, in Arbutus, an abandoned cemetery on Benson Avenue. It’s believed to contain the remains of the influenza victims of 1917. There was a long history of reported hauntings. Of course, this didn’t deter Camille from the past, and the present is all one to her.

Camille passes Baltimore and continues South along I 95, then takes the exit to Arbutus. As she enters the town limits, she stops at a one-pump gas station to get directions to the cemetery. She sees an elderly man sitting in a rusty metal chair, smoking a pipe. She walks over to him and quietly asks, “Sir, can you direct me to the Benson Avenue Cemetery?”

The old man looks at her with milky eyes and clears his throat as if he hasn’t spoken in many years. “Yes, I can tell you how to get there, but there isn’t anything there for you to see. It was overgrown when I was a boy. As you can see, that was a lifetime ago.

“I would appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Well, follow Herbert Run River south for about a quarter of a mile. On the left of the river, you’ll see rusted gates and a fence surrounding an overgrown field. Beyond those gates is the cemetery, what little is left of it. Do you have kin resting there?”

“Kin, no kin. I’m searching for vintage roses.  That’s what I do. I save roses. Thank you for your help. Have a good day, sir.”

“Did you say roses? Well, good luck with that, I would be surprised if you found anything living in that godforsaken place.”

Camille returns to her van, buckles up her seatbelt, and pulls out of the gas station. She glances at the rearview mirror and sees the old man is back to puffing on his pipe. He’s staring into space. It almost feels to her as if the conversation with the old man had never taken place. She wonders how many years he has been sitting in that decrepit chair smoking on his pipe.

She follows his directions, and soon, she sees the rusted gates the old man described. She pulls over and parks next to the fence. As she steps out of the van, she realizes that the ground beneath her feet is soggy.

She walks up to the gate and peers beyond it. The field is a mud hole covered in dead vines and debris. She walks around to the back of the van and opens the doors. Then she reaches in and grabs her boots. She sits on the back bumper, takes off her shoes one at a time, and puts on her boots.

The appearance of the cemetery doesn’t deter or surprise her. She has visited many abandoned cemeteries over the years. She steps down onto the road, walks over to the gates, and pushes them open with some difficulty. Only the top hinges are attached to the gate. She has to lift the gate and shove it back. She looks around and sees some headstones lying on the ground and walks towards them.

The ground is strewn with broken beer bottles and trash of every kind. There’s graffiti on the headstones. Camille steps around the broken glass. Most of the trees within the cemetery look as if they have been dead for a very long time, not unlike the occupants. She learned from her experience that cemeteries this old are abandoned over time because all of the family members of those interred here have long since passed away as well.

Camille walks around looking for any sign of life, and there in the far corner, she spies a possible rose bush. She walks up to it, and sure enough, it is a rose shrub.

She examines the leaf buds and stems; the shrub is nearly five feet high and four feet wide. It’s difficult to identify accurately before it completes leafing out. But she believes that standing before her is Rosa Damascene Bifera, a rose whose ancestors date back to the early Romans.

Her heart is pounding hard as she treks back to the van to retrieve her tools and containers. She’s looked for this rose for years. It’s almost unbelievable that she has found it in this dank and deserted cemetery. But she has. As she starts taking her cuttings, her mind is going a million miles an hour. It’s quite a coup to obtain such a rare find.

She imagines how it will grace her gardens. She knows that her like-minded customers will be as enthralled as she is at this very moment. She returns to the van and replaces the container and tools in the back of the van.

She takes out her drawing pencils and pad and begins a sketch of the Damask Rose. It is a multi-stemmed rose with up to ten blooms. It has been known to bloom more than once a season. Its strong fragrance is entrancing. The rose itself is light to deep pink. She can barely contain her excitement. She feels it’s a celebratory moment. Camille decides to stay in the town overnight and have dinner. She begins a sketch of the rusted gates and fence; she snaps close the sketchbook when she is finished and heads toward the town.

She finds a local diner called Twenty-Two Burgers, and since it is the only restaurant in sight, she pulls into the parking lot. As she enters the restaurant, all eyes turn toward her; a waitress calls out, “Sit wherever you like.”

Camille chooses a booth in the back. She wants to be alone with her thoughts. The waitress appears next to the table in a stained pink polyester uniform circa 1950. The name embroidered on her uniform is Charlene. She hands Camille the menu and says, “Do you need a few minutes?”

Camille glances at the menu and says,” Yes, Charlene, I’ll have the house burger with a side salad and French and a cup of Earl Gray if you have any.”

“Gottcha, only my name isn’t Charlene. It was some waitress before me. My name is Dawn. Be back shortly with your meal.”

In ten minutes, Dawn returns with a burger and fries, salad, and a cup of Earl Grey. “Here you go, honey. Just let me know if you need anything else.”

Camille enjoys her dinner, entertained by her happy thoughts. Dawn comes back to the table, “Would you like a nice apple pie to top off that dinner, miss?”

“Yes, I believe I would, Dawn; thank you. Can you recommend a place to stay overnight in the area?”

“Well, you can get back on the interstate and stay at the Red Top Inn. It’s about two miles south of here, or there’s a little motel called Moe’s just down the road. Nothing fancy, but it’s warm and dry and quiet this time of year.

“Thanks, I believe I’ll do just that.”

Moe’s turned out to be as advertised dry and quiet. Camille writes in her journal for a while, then falls asleep and doesn’t wake up until seven AM. She gets a quick shower and is on her way to her next destination Sandston, Virginia.

She stops at Dupery’s Feed Store about five miles outside of Richmond to ask for directions to the cemetery. She notices a young man lifting fifty-pound sacks of seed as if they’re large sacks of feathers. He carries them over his shoulder from the back of a large flatbed truck into the Feed Store.

“Excuse me, do you know where Dry Bridge Court Cemetery is located?”

“No, Mam, I can’t say that I do, and I’ve lived my entire life here. I think if you follow Main Street down to the end of the Municipal Building, you’ll have better luck. Ask if you can speak to Emily in the Municipal Building. She’s forgotten more about everyone and everything in this town than anyone else ever knew.”

Camille’s face registers a look of confusion. “Oh, right, I’ll do that. Thanks so much, have a good day. The young man goes about his task of moving the sacks from the truck to inside the store.

Camille drives down the street to a building with a sign stating Sandston Police Station and Municipal Building. As she enters, she sees a mailbox with the legend Water and Sewer bill across its shiny brass surface. Camille makes her way inside to a counter, where she sees several middle-aged women sitting at desks.

They’re typing on outdated computers and answering phones that never cease ringing the whole time she stands there. She waits for one of them to acknowledge her, but no one does. “Excuse me, does anyone know how to get to Dry Bridge Court Cemetery?” She waits a couple of beats.

“Yes, I do.” says a voice from the back of the room.

“Would you be Miss Emily?”

“I would. You’ll find the cemetery across the street from Calvary Church that’s just over the bridge. Follow Main Street until it forks off into two roads and bears to the left. Once you cross the bridge, drive about a quarter-mile down the road, and you’ll see the cemetery on the right, across the road from the church. The church isn’t there anymore. There’s a house there. The church burnt down long before I was born.” Miss Emily disappears once more behind her desk.

Camille registers yet another look of confusion. But says, “Well, thank you very much for your help.” She returns to her van and drives down the road. “Well, I’ll be.” She says out loud.

She finds the cemetery without any difficulty, just as Miss Emily instructed her. Across from Calvary Church, that no longer stands there. She steps down from the truck and retrieves her boots, and puts them on.  She walks into what must have been the church’s cemetery. There’s a broken-down wall made of fieldstones surrounding the cemetery. Just as she’s walking through the entrance, she hears a voice.

“Hey you, what are you doing in there? What do you want?”

She looks in the direction of the voice and sees a middle-aged man wearing an old felt hat walking towards her. As he steps closer, she sees he’s older than she thought at first. His blue eyes radiate intelligence. He looks directly at her. “What are you doing? We’ve had a lot of trouble with people vandalizing the churchyard. Are you from this area?”

“Hello, no, I’m not from this area. I’m a collector of sorts. I spend my life preserving remnants of the past. I do this by visiting deserted cemeteries and taking cuttings from Heritage Rose bushes. I take them back home with me to my farm in Dublin, Pennsylvania, and propagate them. I make a living doing this. But my main purpose is to save these roses that would otherwise be lost.”

“Do you? Well, that’s an unusual way of making a living. Saving the past for the future, that’s wonderful. My grandmother was a gardener as well. She loved her roses and watching the changing of the seasons. Watching things grow, the cycle of life she called it. She said it was life-affirming. “I do. It’s a pleasure to meet someone so like-minded. Do you mind if I have a look around the cemetery for any rose shrubs that might still be there?”

“Of course, you can look, but I’m sorry to say that you won’t find any. Last year some kids came into the cemetery and desecrated the graves. They pulled out all the plants that were growing there.  I’m afraid they were all destroyed. It’s hard to fathom why anyone would do such a thing. It’s a strange world we live in these days.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. That’s terrible, did the police find the kids that committed the crime?”

“Well, we had a good idea who was responsible, but no proof. I’ve tried to keep my eye on the cemetery ever since. Where will you be headed now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My last stop is Wilson, North Carolina, and then I’ll be returning home. I plan on visiting the Wilson Botanical Rose Garden. There’s a small cemetery located in Wilson that’s been there for over one hundred years. I’ll be stopping there as well.  Well, thank you so much for your time. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. Drive safely.”

Camille walks back to her truck, disappointed about the loss of the roses. If only she had come here last year. Oh, there’s no point in dwelling on things that can’t be undone. You have to keep moving forward. If anything, it just makes her more resolute in her commitment to saving other roses. She drives back onto the road. She beeps and waves at the farmer as she drives away.

As she arrives at the outskirts of Wilson in the late afternoon, Camille decides to stop for lunch at a little restaurant called Jake’s Place. As she walks through the door of the restaurant, it feels and looks like she’s taking a step back in time to the early 1950s. There are pink and black linoleum tiles on the floor. The tables and chairs are Formica banded by chrome. It’s not a recreation of a 1950’s diner. It’s the real thing, unchanged by time. The customers are talking animatedly to the people sitting next to them.

The waitress takes her to a booth in the back. Camille thanked her and asked for the lunch special and a cup of hot tea. After the waitress brings Camille her lunch, she thinks about her plans for the next couple of days. She decides to visit the cemetery first and visit the Botanical Gardens the next day. She pays her bill and heads out the door.

To her dismay, her truck refuses to start. She waits a few minutes and then tries again, but no luck. It seems as if the battery is dead. She heads back into the restaurant to the cashier’s counter. “Hello, my car won’t start, can you recommend a mechanic or garage that I can contact to have a look at it?”

“Well, yes, I can. As a matter of fact, he’s sitting right at the counter over there. Hold on.”

“Mat, hey Mat, can you give this young lady a hand? She’s having trouble with her car out in the parking lot?”

“What sure, I’m finishing my lunch. So perfect timing.”

As they walk out the door, Camille thinks well, this day has gotten off to a rocky start. “Hi, it’s the van right over here. It was running fine, and now it won’t start.”

“Well, that’s how things happen sometimes with a car. One minute it’s fine, and the next it’s not. Let’s see what’s happening. He turns the key, but nothing. Then he looks under the hood. ”

“The cables are corroded. Let me try to jump-start it.” He jump-starts it. It starts up, and he lets it charge for a few minutes.

“I think you should follow me over to my garage so I can test it. It may need a new alternator. If it does, I’ll have to order one because I don’t keep parts for cars this old. It’ll take a day or two.”

“Oh, no. Ok, I’ll follow you over to your garage.”

After they arrive, he drives Camille’s van into the garage and comes out about ten minutes later. I’m sorry, but it’s the alternator. I called my supplier, and he can have one here in about forty-eight hours.”

“What? Can you suggest a hotel or motel nearby for me to stay overnight?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there’s a motel down this road. Now don’t laugh, but it’s called the Robert E. Lee Inn. Tell them that Mat from the garage sent you over, and you’re waiting for your truck to be repaired.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that, and thanks for your help Mat.”

After Camille checks in at the motel, she brings her bag to the hotel room. She decides to take a look around town. She goes down to the lobby to talk to the desk clerk. “Hello again, I was wondering if you knew of any old graveyards that are within walking distance? That I could visit while my car is being serviced.”

“Cemeteries, I like to say that’s an unusual request, but it’s not. There’s one that’s old but is still occasionally being used by the local gentry. It’s called the Historic London Church. Just follow this road to the end. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks so much. I hope I have better luck than I have had so far today.”

Camille takes her time walking down the street. It’s quite charming in an old South kind of way. The homes have large pillared wrap-around porches. Camille imagines that in the summer, the neighbors gather round on them.  Passing the time of day with each other, drinking sweet tea. Their yards are beautifully landscaped with many old trees. One house has a Southern Magnolia that is over a hundred feet tall. It towers over the other trees nearby. She imagines how beautiful it will look in late spring. The magnificent cream-colored Magnolia flowers are in full bloom and spreading their heavy fragrance through the neighborhood with the evening breeze.

She sees an old church ahead and walks towards it.  She hopes for better luck in this cemetery. Then she remembers her tools and containers are in the van. Well, it can’t hurt to look around. She can come back later and retrieve cuttings if she finds any.

As she enters the grounds, she notices a dog lying on a recently dug gravesite near the entrance. As she walks near the dog, he looks up at her with large brown eyes. But he continues his vigil at the grave. Camille loves dogs but hasn’t had any pets since she was a young child. The dog is black and white with long, wavy fur. He has an unusual black diamond marking on the top of her head. He keeps his eyes on Camille. Against her better judgment, Camille leans down, pets his head, and scratches behind his ears.

Camille is startled when she hears a voice nearby call out, “You’re the first person that she’s responded to since Claire passed away two weeks ago. I’ve been bringing her food and water. Several people have wanted to take her in, but she wanted no part of them.”

“Oh, she’s a beautiful dog, is she a Cocker Spaniel?”

“Yes, she is, her name is Rosie. Claire loved roses more than anything in this world. That’s why she called her Rosie.”

“Rosie, she must have sensed a kindred spirit in me. I came here to see the roses. I collect and propagate old roses.”

“Really, well, that’s an amazing coincidence. Or perhaps it was meant to be, but I guess I’m old fashioned. I believe in kismet.  Perhaps you two were meant to meet.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’m not looking for a dog. I came here looking for roses to save.”

“Perhaps that’s exactly what you’re here to do, save Rosie. We all thought she would lie here and die from a broken heart.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Would it be alright if I just took a look around while I’m here?”

“Of course, look around. Many of the roses you see here were planted by Claire. She, too, collected cuttings from rose bushes of the family cemeteries in this area. I’m sure she would love it if you took some of them with you and propagated them.”

As Camille walks up and down the rows of graves, the sheer number and variety of rose bushes that are growing here amaze her. Roses she only dreamed of owning.

Camille has a feeling that she isn’t alone. She looks behind her and sees that Rosie has been keeping her company. Rosie is looking at her like a child who thought she lost her mother and then found her again.

Camille says, ” Rosie, I think that I have found a very rare rose indeed. I think you might be the rose I have been looking for all my life.”

Don’t Go Walking After Midnight

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It’s my habit to take a long walk in the morning. At first, I only walked a half a mile each morning. But each week I increased it by one half a mile. After five weeks and I was up to five and a half miles a day. I think this is my limit for the time being. I keep a fairly quick pace, and so after the first two miles, my legs start to cramp up. This is my signal to keep walking faster until the cramps subside. And I don’t stop until I reach five- and one-half miles on my pedometer.

A walk in the Park

Park

I’m sure you are thinking but why are you telling me this? Could this be more boring? Honestly, it could become quite mundane. But it isn’t, and the reason is this. Every day when I take a walk, something weird happens. Or I meet someone that I knew in the past and haven’t seen for years. Sometimes I meet someone unbelievably interesting or horrifyingly strange.

How is that possible? I’m glad you asked. I have absolutely no idea how it is possible. I only know that it is god’s own truth. Let me begin by telling you that I’m an ordinary person. I’m middle-aged. Not breathtakingly beautiful or hideous. Just average, at least to look at.

I have lost about fifteen pounds over the course of the past six months since I started walking. I have what used to be called dirty brown hair with a touch of gray. I think I look somewhat younger than my age, which is forty-two. When young I was known for my deep dimples. Unfortunately, as I grew older, the once adorable dimples turned into wrinkles.

But within me, I have always believed I was special, highly intelligent, and creative. I’m really funny in a sarcastic, snarky kind of way. I’m often the center of attention at parties. And to be perfectly honest, for some reason, weird people are attracted to me.

Here’s an example to prove my point. This happened years ago.  I was shopping at this store. that no longer exists. It was called Edmond’s Scientific. It was a manufacturing company that made scientific glass and telescopes and similar items for laboratories.

But within the four walls of Edmond’s Scientific outlet store was very diverse, and might I say an odd assortment of objects for sale beside the scientific glassware. They sold science kits for all the nerdy science kids, seashells and bones and rocks of every kind, fossils and toy dinosaurs and mirrors that distorted your image. And random gadgets that I could never ascertain their purpose.

I was always attracted to the picture books of oddities. I always found things like Siamese twins who had one body but two heads or sheep with one eye fascinating. Stuff like that, yes, that’s a little odd. But if we were all completely candid, we would admit we have an attraction to all things weird and unconventional.

But I digress, that day while I was cruising the isles of Edmund Scientific, a middle-aged man comes over to me and starts talking rapidly. He kept asking me if I would be interested in going to a nearby flea market with him where he sold things to make money.

I was barely able to focus on what he was saying because I am transfixed by his appearance. He was shorter than I, and I’m about five feet with heels. He had a slack but somehow animated face. Which is an odd combination, I know? But true nonetheless. He had a unibrow that went from one side of his forehead to the other. He had a scrawny goatee that is white and braided. And an earring that was a shrunken head. And the really fascinating thing was the ring of toothpaste around his mouth. It was gross, and yet I couldn’t stop staring at it. As I thought, does he know that is on his face? Doesn’t he feel it? Did he look in the mirror after brushing? I had an irresistible urge to wipe his face off with a handi-wipe. At the same time, I wanted to get as far away as possible.

I am always been confronted by these two conflicting but irresistible feelings. Being attracted and repelled at the same time. I chose to run swiftly out the door and into my car. And drove away as quickly as it’s possible. I often wonder if I am somehow inviting this type of attention. But if I am, I didn’t know the mechanism. Nor how to stop it.

Anyway, I digress, since I first start going to Washington Park I went very early in the morning. In the late Spring, that was about six AM. I found that about eighty percent of the people who go out at first light are very mundane, and the other twenty percent of them are quite odd. There are groups of buff young men that go to play tennis. I have to admit I stop and watch them for quite a while. Although I am almost middle-aged, I’m still breathing. What can I say?

Then there are the people who meet every morning in the parking lot and then walk in groups. They keep up at a fairly decent clip but aren’t averse to stopping and talking quite animatedly if someone is telling an exciting bit of gossip or story. These groups are usually of retirement age.

Then there are the older men who usually come alone and walk alone. I often say hi to these guys and everyone else for that matter but they rarely, if ever say hello back. In general, they prefer to keep human contact to an absolute minimum.

There’s a young woman that uses roller blades. She is quite athletic looking and wears tight clothes that are apparently meant to be aerodynamic. Her hair is short and very blond. I can’t emphasize how I envy her youth, athletic ability, and low body fat. In the time it takes me to travel around the park one time, she has gone around three times. I wave each time she passes me, but she’s wearing headphones and is apparently in the zone. And does not seem to be aware of the people around her.

One day I decide to go through the woods trail to increase the difficulty and calorie-burning effect of my experience. It was somewhat dark in the woods because of the trees. As I entered the dense canopy area, I hear a rustling in the woods. I was squinting at the tree-lined area, and I see what I believed to be two men running towards me at a very quick pace. I became momentarily frightened because I thought I was the only woman walking in the woodsy area in the early morning. As they were coming closer, I begin to scream at the top of my voice. Thinking I was about to be murdered or raped.

I hear them right behind me and quickly turn my head in that direction. And it is at this point I realize that the men that are chasing me were not men at all. But a deer rushing through the woods in my direction. I don’t know if I was more relieved or more embarrassed. And my main concern was that no one had seen me act like a hysterical woman. I am completely out of breath and sweating like nobody’s business. I stop to catch my breath. And then I start laughing hysterically. I realize that it was the best workout that I ever had.

As I was saying before I went off on that tangent. I am so inspired by the young blond woman on rollerblades that I decide to purchase my own skates. Also, I buy a helmet and knee pads. As a child, I learned to skate using the old fashion type of skates that you wore over your shoes and are tightened with a key.

If you made a sudden stop, the skates would come off the front of your shoe. And you would trip and fall on your knees if you put your hands out. If not, you would fall flat on your face. I was not particularly athletic, and most often I fell flat on my face. Either way, you chipped your front teeth or skinned your knees. I spent most of my early childhood with what was called road rash — heavily scabbed knees.

When I was in my early teens, I would walk downtown in Maple Shade, NJ, where I grew up, and catch the bus in front of the police station. For a quarter, you could take the bus to the Riverside Roller Rink. My friends and I would go there every Saturday morning and skate for three hours for fifty cents. I have to admit my skating skills never really improved. I always came home bruised and battered and scraped. But it was great fun.

So, my initial rollerblading experience at Washington Lake Park was not a complete success. I found that rollerblading on the cement sidewalk is not as easy as it looks. And there were many parts of the path that went uphill. I barely made it up those hills. And then there are the inevitable one hundred miles an hour hair raising trip downhill.

One day an older couple in their late sixties kept yelling at me.” Come on you can go faster than that.” I gave them the Italian salute. I can’t say I blame them because they passed me walking at a somewhat leisurely pace.

I was fifty years old when I decided to try rollerblading. This is probably not the best time in life to try rollerblading. You have neither the agility nor energy to keep up with the lithe young women in their early twenties as I found out. The other factor that I failed to take into consideration was that I did not know how to stop skating.

You’re supposed to point the toe of the skate down and this slows you down. And you slowly come to a complete and safe stop. Unfortunately, I did not know this. And the only way I was able to stop was to skate onto the grass and then fall over.

At this point, I decided to try rollerblading at a skating rink. So, one beautiful sunny day, I drove to the self-same Riverside Roller Rink I used to go to as a kid and went skating. And believe it or not, I was doing fabulously. Right up until the point where I start going very fast, and suddenly, I found my legs going up in the air. And you guessed it, my rear end went down. Hard. I couldn’t get up. I was in agony. I crawled over to the side of the roller rink and sat down and cried like a baby. And believe it or not, not one person came over to ask if I was alright. It turns out that I broke my tailbone. I wasn’t able to sit on a chair for six months. That was the end of my journey to be a skater.

As I was explaining before I went off on that tangent. One day I was walking through the woodsy part of the park, and I noticed a young woman pushing a baby carriage. She was staring down at the ground. As I walked past her, I asked her,” what are you looking at?”

“There’s a snake over here, and I’m afraid to walk past it. “

“Snake you say, I don’t think so. I’ve been coming to this park for a long time, and I’ve never seen any snakes. But there are no dangerous snakes in this part of NJ.”

So, I walk over to the “snake” and pushed it with my foot. And say,” See, it’s just a stick.” And then the “stick” started moving and made its way onto the grass and away. The young woman looks at me with an air of superiority and walks quickly away.  I say,” “whoops” to myself. And walk away.

Overall my time spent walking in the park was a positive experience. The main problem I have is dealing with my own paranoia. And the fact that I want to engage every person I see in some way big or small. I guess I’m both a paranoid and overly friendly person at the same time. I’m both the Yin and the Yang. But then aren’t we all to some degree. We are a bundle of inconsistencies and contradictions. My final advice is, get your ass in gear and enjoy the rays. But, watch your back.

FUNNY BUSINESS

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Coffee Break

I have been looking for a new job for over a year, with no luck. Or should I say with no good luck? But plenty of bad luck. I quit my last job. Well, that’s not entirely true. My immediate supervisor strongly suggested that I quit because he had every intention of firing me. There was a difference of opinions on why I quit or why my supervisor wanted to fire me, depending on the point of view.

He stated that I wasn’t a team player. And that’s true to a point; I prefer working independently. But I’m quite capable of working in concert with a team. I have difficulty taking direction from someone whom I consider to be less intelligent, less experienced, and a kiss-ass.

But give me a task, and I promise you it will be completed on time and might I say, impeccably. I do ask that people that work with me on a team or in my department have high standards. But most of all, I will not tolerate any kind of funny business.

What kind of funny business, you ask? That is an excellent question. Number one is to keep your hands to yourself. Secondly, do not ask personal questions. And most importantly, know that if I find out that you or any member of the team do anything that even the slightest bit illegal, immoral, I will promptly tell management and or call in the police if necessary. I have very high standards and will not tolerate any breach of professional ethics or the law.

Oh, you need to hear more details about what happened exactly? Of course, if you think it’s necessary. I will explain the events that led to my current unemployment and job search.

As with all things in life, it began with something small but didn’t end there. I bring my lunch to work every day. And a thermos of hot coffee large enough to last all day. It’s a special blend.  I purchase it from an exclusive shop in Marlton, NJ.  It’s called Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee. It cost $50.00 a pound. It’s my one big self-indulgence. It has a wonderful flavor with absolutely no bitter aftertaste. Because the coffee beans are subject to many rainfalls in Jamaica while they grow, it’s amazing and worth every penny. I can’t describe how delicious it is and how much I look forward to drinking every last drop of it during my workday.

It all began one inauspicious day a year ago. I arrived at work one-half hour early as usual. I consider that thirty minutes to be my time to do whatever I wish. And I want to spend it reading the news and my emails. And drinking my first cup of Blue. That’s how I refer to my coffee, Blue.

I was the first person to arrive as usual. I made myself as comfortable as possible at my desk chair and powered up my computer. As I waited, I opened my thermos and inhale the rich aroma of Blue. I feel a sense of deep contentment. Ah, I think it’s all worth it just to feel the sense of anticipation before I take this first sip of the day.

And then that perfect moment is shattered when I hear my boss’s shrill voice calling out my name. “Rachael, is that you? Could you please come to my office right now? I have something that needs to be taken care of immediately.”

It takes every ounce of self-control not to shout, “hell no, this is my time.”

I carefully place my coffee on my desk and take the last whiff of that aroma. I step back from my desk and walk toward my boss’ office.

“Hello, Mr. Cummings. I didn’t know you were here. It’s early, and I was just about…

“Yes, yes, I know it’s early. I need you to get started on the Murdock issue right away. It has to be finished by day’s end. Even if you have to work through your lunch and breaks. Do you understand?”

“Understand? Of course. But I was just about to drink my morning coffee. And then I’ll get started.”

“What don’t you grasp about the urgency of completing this project TODAY, ASAP? As in now, not later. Get busy if you want to keep your job. Close the door on the way out.”

As I walk over to my desk, I have a sense of not being entirely in my body. I have a feeling that I’m somehow floating. And then I realize that I’m irate. And every time I’m about to lose my temper completely, I have this weird out-of-body experience.

I try to take several long breaths. It doesn’t help. I go to the ladies’ room and take a look in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself. My face is red, and I’m gritting my teeth. I try breathing in and out of my nose. I feel lightheaded. Maybe, I‘m having a stroke or something. I step into the cubicle and sit on the closed toilet. I try to calm down. I go back to my desk.

All I need to do right now is have my morning coffee. Is that too much to ask? No, it is not. This is my time, goddammit. I pick up my coffee, and I take a small sip. And I taste not pipping hot but cold coffee. I slam the cup down and say out loud.” What the fuck?”

I’m startled by the sound of my voice.  I have never cursed at any place of employment. My hand flies up and covers my mouth of its own volition. I’m shocked. I’m suddenly terrified of what I may do next. I don’t recognize myself at this moment.

I feel a sudden impulse to run out of the office and get in my car and drive far, far away.

I contemplate it for a moment. And then I plop down in my chair and try to get control over my emotions. What’s happening to me? And then it occurs to me that I should go to my boss’s office and tell him that I most certainly will drink my coffee and take my breaks. And he can not legally force me to do otherwise.

I stand up so suddenly I almost fall over. Then I plop down in my chair again.

I consider the possible outcomes of such a bold move. I could be fired outright. I could be demoted. It took me five years to work my way up the corporate tight rope, and I don’t want to start over somewhere else. Dammit. I’m screwed.

At that moment, I have a flash of insight. I will nonchalantly walk into my boss’ office and offer him a fresh cup of Blue. He will, of course, love it. I mean, who wouldn’t. I won’t tell him the Brand of coffee. No matter how he begs. And then he will want more, and I will be his only connection. He will be at my mercy. And so, I begin.

I go into the employee luncheon area, and I find the best coffee cup in the cupboard. I will pour him a cup of my ambrosia, and he will be instantly hooked.

I wash and dry the cup, which is emblazoned with the epitaph, And So It Begins.   What could be more perfect than this? I take it to my desk and generously fill the cup almost to the top. It is painful to watch, for I know every drop I pour into this cup will not be one that I can drink today. I shudder at the thought. A tear slides down my cheek.

But it must be done. It is a significant sacrifice. But in the end, it will be worth it. I tiptoe to my boss’s office.  He is studying his flat screen. His face is expressionless. I clear my throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Reynolds.”

He doesn’t reply, I repeat a bit louder, “Excuse me, Mr. Reynolds.”

He looks up, and he looks at me as if he doesn’t recognize my face. There is a slight pause, and he says, Miss Hartman? Problem?”

“No, sir, I just thought you might like a cup of coffee to start the day.”

“Coffee, why that would be great. That’s thoughtful of you.”

As Rachael turns to leave her boss’s office, a sly smile appears on her face. She realizes she will soon have Mr. Cummings under her thumb.

Rachael knocks on his door, and he says, “Come.” For some reason, Rachael is enraged by this response. She rearranges her expression to appear benign.

“Here you go, sir, enjoy. I think you will find this more than satisfactory. This is a special blend. I don’t believe you will find it anywhere in this part of the country. Let’s say it is my little secret.”

Mr. Cummings sits back in his chair and smells the coffee.  He is pleasantly surprised by the deep, rich aroma. He takes a small sip. His eyes open wide. He takes a second sip. And before you know it. He has drunk the entire cup of coffee.

“Rachael, can you come in here, please?”

Rachael is just getting into her work mode and is annoyed because it was interrupted. But she isn’t surprised. She expects no less. She knows Mr. Cummings would want more. But he isn’t going to get it today or any day soon. She would soon have him beg for more. And that will be all she wrote when that happens.

“I’m sorry if I was short with you earlier. I’m under the gun with this Murdock deal. I really need your help to get this completed before the deadline. I realize that you come in early, but I would appreciate your input and assistance. Oh, if I can have some more of that coffee, that would be awesome. Where did you buy it?”

“Oh well, that is a special blend that I get by mail order. It isn’t available anywhere around here. I only have a thermos with me. It’s quite expensive, and I can’t afford to buy it more than once a month.”

“Oh really, well, perhaps we can discuss an increase in pay after we get this Murdock deal completed.”

“Well, sir, maybe just this once. And if we get this package completed early, I would like to leave an hour early.”

Rachael sits at her desk and types the final entry into the Murdock presentation. She’s quite sure this is the best work she has done. A small smile lights up her face and then disappears as quickly as it appeared. She rechecks all the collated copies and heads towards Mr. Cumming’s office, and knocks on his office door.

“Mr. Cummings, I’ve completed the package for the Murdock presentation. I think you will find everything in order. And since I’ll be leaving early, I brought you the last cup.”

After looking over the file, Mr. Cummings calls Rachael into the office. “Well done, excellent work. And that coffee hit the spot. It really is invigorating, isn’t it?

“See you tomorrow.”

Rachael straightens up her desk and locks the desk drawer, and heads out of the office. Nods to several of her office mates. And then takes the elevator down to the lobby and walks across the street to the company parking lot.

She unlocks her car and puts on her seat belt, and pulls out onto Fairmount Drive. The next thing she knows, she’s pulling into her driveway. She realizes that she must have been driving on autopilot the whole time. She shakes her head from left to right. She tries to remember what she had been thinking of the whole time.

And then it comes to her. She had been considering the next step in her plan to move up the corporate ladder and out of her assistant position. She knows damn well she’s as smart as her boss and most of the higher-ups in her company.

The next morning Rachael gently pours Blue into her thermos, being careful not to bruise it. She turns on her computer and looks through her feed. Nothing interesting yet. And then she hears someone walking towards her. And then senses someone standing behind her. He clears his throat. She turns her head slightly and looks down at his shoes. Yes, it’s her boss. He is wearing his favorite Fioravanti Suit and Ferragamo shoes. Because of the board meeting today.

“Rachael, I want to once again thank you for your hard work on the Murdock Project. As I said, if all goes well, I expect there will be a bonus in there for you in the near future. By the way, would it be possible for you to share a cup of that magnificent ambrosia you gave me yesterday? I was up quite late, and I could really use a little boost, if you know what I mean.”

“Boost, sir?” Oh, but I explained to you how expensive it is and that I have to send away for it.”

“Oh, come on, one cup, that’s not too much to ask, Rachael, is it? Is there nothing I can do to persuade you?”

It feels as if a light has literally been turned on in her head. She turns her face slightly to hide the sly smile on her face. She takes a deep breath and says,” Well, sir, here’s the deal. If you recommend me for the open position in the New Acquisitions Division, then I will not only share my unique blend with you. I will make sure that every day you can have as much of it as often as you want it. “

“Well, I don’t know, Rachael, that’s an awful lot to ask in return for a mere cup of coffee, isn’t it?”

“Well, sir, if that’s how you see it. I guess there’s no point in discussing it any further. You know that I have been working at this company for well over ten years. And I know this business backward and forward. This company is my life. I have proven my value here.”

“Rachael, let’s talk about this further after my meeting, shall we?”

“No, sir, let’s decide now. I’m sure that I can find a position at Farrington and Sons. In fact, Mr. Farrington Sr. offered me such a position a week ago.”

“What? He is trying to steal away one of my best employees behind my back.”

“Well, that is not how I see it. He recognizes quality when he sees it. It’s up to you. You only have about five minutes before your meeting. What do you say?”

“Alright, Rachael, you have me over a barrel. Can you please get me that coffee now?”

“So, we have a deal?”

“Yes, yes, we do.”

“Good, I’ll get that coffee for you right now.”

After the meeting, Mr. Cummings walks nonchalantly into his office with the head of personnel and makes a call, and then he calls Rachael into his office.”

“Rachael, can you come here for a moment, please?”

Rachael jumps up from her desk chair so quickly that her chair falls backward onto the floor. She feels like she is floating across the room, and she knocks lightly on the door.”

“Come in, Rachael. As you can see, I have Mr. Hartley here from personnel. He has something to say to you.”

Rachael is absolutely convinced that she is about to her dream job. She holds her breath waiting to hear the good news. She is about to get everything she deserves for her years of hard work and achievement.

“Hello, Ms. Daniels, please have a seat. I have something to tell you.”

Rachael sat down and looks up expectantly. She had pictured this moment so many times. And now, here it is about to happen. “Yes, go ahead.”

“Ms. Daniels, I regret that I have to inform you that you are no longer going to be employed here at Megger. Your services will no longer be needed. You will be getting severance pay for two weeks. Right now, you are going to be escorted to your desk to collect your personal belongings. And then you will be taken to the front door. I will be collecting any keys or items belonging to the company when we get to your desk.”

Rachael almost passed out from the sheer shock at the unexpected and devastating turn of events. She makes a quick turn around and walks slowly to her desk. She is feeling as if not only her job will be terminated but that her life is being terminated.

“Alright, Ms. Daniels, let’s go through your desk, and you hand me the items such as keys and code lists. By the way, all the passwords on your computer will be wiped and changed. So, you will not be able to access this computer or any other computer you have had access to during your time here. Here is a list of items I will expect you to turn over to me now.”

Rachael puts her hand out, and the list is given to her but drifts to the ground. It almost feels like she’s having a waking nightmare. She leans down and picks up the list, and starts collecting all the items. She hands them over. “Please, can you tell me what I have done? I believe it is illegal to terminate someone’s job by providing the said employee with a reason?”

“Well, Ms. Daniels, it so happens that your boss records all his conversations in his office to avoid any possible accusations of impropriety. And we heard a conversation that sounded very much like blackmail. You demanded a promotion from your boss.”

“Demanded, no, I merely stated that I had worked many years and that I’m an excellent employee who deserves a promotion and salary increase. That’s all.”

“You also threatened your immediate supervisor to cut off the supply of his coffee and wouldn’t tell him where you purchased it. And wouldn’t give him anymore unless your demands were met. Is that right?”

“Well yes, I suppose you could say that. But it was just coffee, not drugs, nothing illegal: coffee, a good cup of coffee. Please, I need this job. It’s my life.”

“Sorry, Ms. Daniels you should have considered that before your attempt at blackmail?”

As he’s saying this, the head of personnel starts guiding her to the back entrance. He says, “goodbye.” I hope you learned a lesson here. Most companies will not tolerate this type of Funny Business. Goodbye. Ms. Daniels, good luck.”

As Rachael was given a gentle shove out the door, she yells, “but wait, it was just COFFEE.”

————————————–   

Oh Crap

2 Replies

Oh crap! Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in the back of my neck. The mosquitoes are out in full force tonight. But why, oh, why am I always the prime target? I feel the back of my neck. Something sticking out, thin, and sharp, I pull it out. It ‘s some kind of dart.

“What the hell?”

Emergency

Emergency Room-Pixabay Paulbr75/2013

That’s the last thing I remember until I wake up. I wake up slowly, thinking I must be in bed, having a bad dream. In a few minutes, I’ll wake up and find myself in my queen size bed, with my brand-new goose down comforter keeping me warm and comfy, with Ralphy lying next to me. Ralphy is my golden Lab and my best friend. I adopted him five years ago from a shelter.

My friend Oswald who volunteers at the shelter called me and told me all about Ralphy, and what a great dog he was. His owner had passed away suddenly, and no one in the family could take him, and he had been in the shelter for four months, his time was running out.

My dog, Cody, had passed away from cancer about a year ago. Oswald thought we both needed a new best friend. I was somewhat reluctant at first since I was broken up after Cody died, but I did miss having someone greet me when I get home. Someone that likes me, unlike my ex, who hates everything about me at the end of our relationship, including how I sneezed.

I went to the shelter to meet Ralphy, and he was a beautiful Golden. He has an endearing outgoing personality. Easy going live and let live outlook on life. We hit it right off.  I filled out the adoption papers right then and there.  A week later, I took him home. We have been best buds ever since.

But unfortunately, I’m not in my big, soft bed with my new down comforter. I ‘m unable to move my arms or legs, so I thought at first I was tied up, I tried to look down and see, but I can’t do that either.

Oh my god, I’m paralyzed. I hear a low, kind of soothing voice from somewhere I not sure; maybe it was a recording or from a microphone.

“You’re going to be alright. The anesthetic will wear off slowly over the next hour. In the meantime, would you please answer all my questions?

My god, I thought, I’ve been kidnapped and am now being kept captive. I can’t move my head, so I roll my eyes from left to right and then up to the ceiling. I see fluorescent lights above, and white walls, adorned by nothing.

At the foot of my bed, I think I see a white jacket, but it’s hard to tell. Because somewhere along the line, I lost my glasses I need to see at a distance. Anything beyond three feet is at a blur for me. My little brother used to call me Mr. Magoo when I was growing up. Because before lightweight glasses came out, I had the real glass type as thick as the bottom of a soda bottle. So, this was the source of the soothing voice.

“Your name, date of birth, social security number, and insurance information, please?”

“My name is Helen, Helen Randolph. My birth date is August 4th, 1984. I do not have health insurance at this time. I got laid off from work eight months ago, and I couldn’t afford to pay for the Cobra insurance. Wait, wait, why are you asking me these questions? What kind of kidnapper ask for insurance information? I don’t have any money. I already told you I am unemployed? Nobody I know has any money, what do you want from me?”

“Kidnapper? Did you hit your head when you fell? We will have to have a CAT scan to make sure you don’t have a head injury.”

“I don’t know if I hit my head, maybe I don’t remember anything past getting a small dart of some kind in the back of my neck. When will I start to be able to move?” Helen suddenly realizes that she is indeed beginning to be able to move. First, her toes could wiggle, and now her hands. And now she can lift her head.

Ms. Randolph, this is Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital in Camden, NJ. It is on July twenty-first, 2019. You were brought into the hospital after someone in the park, noticed you were lying on the ground, unconscious. A tranquilizing dart accidentally hit you. Animal control was trying to capture a brown bear that had wandered into the park from the adjoining woods looking for food. You will be perfectly fine by the end of the day.

“Thank God.”

“It’s all is a day’s work, Ms. Randolph, all in a day’s work.

A LIE IS A LIE IS A LIE

1 Reply

 

“Delta Dawn Rafferty, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” As I sit in the witness chair, I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead. And then a shudder runs through my whole body. I stare out across the courtroom. I hear a low buzzing in my ears, and heat on the back of my neck and ears. My heart is beating so hard I think it might explode out of my chest. Dear god, I think I’m going to pass out in front of God and country.  Carrie Z - Pixababy

I blink and take a long, deep breath and exhale. “Yes, I do swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god.” I’m biting my lip so hard it starts to bleed. I take an old tissue out of my jacket pocket and dab at my lip and gulp. I stuff the tissue back from whence it came. I sit up as straight as I can. And then I look out at Douglas, the accused, my former boyfriend, although a short-lived one.

“Can you relate to the court the circumstances that brought you here today? In your own words, can you tell the court what exactly occurred on January first of this year?”

As I sit there and try to decide what I should say, I realize that I had made up my mind a long time ago. I’m going to say precisely what it will take to put that bastard behind bars for as long as possible. Douglas is the picture of innocence. His face is blank, flaccid, you might say. But I know him better than anyone here. I can see that he’s gritting his teeth and his jaw is tightening. His lips are slightly pursed. If he could, he would rush up here and strangle me with his bare hands; he would. I have no doubt.

It began back when I was in grad school. Everything was going along as planned, and then I met Douglas. It was just after mid-term. I was on my break and my friends, and I decided to go out and party at the local pubs. Hell, I think we hit all of them on South Street in Philadelphia. I’m not much of a drinker, but for some reason that night, I just gave myself permission to drink myself into oblivion. Later, I wished that was all I found oblivion, not Douglas.

It was a beautiful starlit night. Well, that’s not exactly true, but it sounds better then it was raining like hell, and we all got soaked to the bone. There were five of us. There was Dolores, she has glorious red hair down to her waist and a tattoo on her arm that reads, Born to Die. She is the funniest person I ever met. She has a very dry wit,  dryer than the Mojave Dessert. She says the most outrageous things with a straight face. You have to think twice about everything she says, and then she will burst out laughing.

And then there’s Candy as beautiful as any model with an IQ that Einstein would envy. She’s only twenty-two and has two doctorate degrees. One in advanced physics, the other in psychology. Abnormal psychology was her area of interest.

And my best friend, Alicia. There isn’t any brief description of Ali she is all heart. I do not doubt that she is an empath. She can take one look at you, and in a few minutes, she understands who you are and what makes you tick. Although, I have to admit she misjudged me. She will go to the end of the earth to help you if you need her to. She has never met anyone who she doesn’t consider a friend. And the feeling is mutual. She has been my best friend since grade school. I can’t imagine my life without her in it.

And then there’s Thelma. How best to describe Thelma? She grew up in the Appalachian Mountains. Her family was poor. Not poor where they didn’t have extra money to go on vacation in the summer. But poor, she didn’t have food to eat every day of her life. She was homeschooled through high school. She has an endemic memory. If she reads it, she retains it. She has the frizziest hair that I have ever seen. She calls it her Irish Frow. There are freckles on her face and body the size of dimes. Is she the most beautiful girl in the world, no.? But, the men flock after her like a cat to catnip.

And then there’s me, of course, Delta Dawn Rafferty. Yes, I know that’s the name of a country-western song. My mother loved those old country ballads. Let me begin by saying that I have a good heart but don’t always make the best decisions. Often my heart leads the way instead of my head. I suppose I would have to say that of all of my friends I’m the creative one. My imagination knows no limits.  I’m an artist and writer. I’m quick with the sarcastic barb. I also have a quick temper and a short fuse. I’m a distant relative of Georgia O’Keefe. Now, you know everything relevant about me except how I came to be on trial for attempted murder. I didn’t attempt to murder anyone.  I was trying to save my own life. I believe that’s called self-defense.

As I was saying, we were out on the town hitting all the dive bars in Philadelphia’s South Street. If you ever have the time and the inclination, go there. The only possible place I could compare to South Street would be the Haute Ashbury section of San Francisco in the sixties and seventies. At least that’s what my grandmother Lou told me. And she ought to know she was a hippie back in the day.

We started at Tattooed Mom, it’s one of the most fabulous places on South Street if you are going on a bar troll with your best buds. Go there with a buzz on before you get there, even better.

Because this place is a sensory overload starting at the front of the building, the theme is carried on inside. Every surface is covered with psychedelic graffiti, including the walls and the furniture. All the artwork is created by the most talented and innovative graffiti artist in Philadelphia. Each one is a piece of history. They have a remarkable collection of craft beers. If you like some spicy chicken wings or an awesome veggie burger it’s yours for the asking.

They have poetry readings open to local poets. And then there’s Upstairs Mama’s where there’re political meet-ups with local Progressive leaders. Not your scene, then you can play a game of pool. It’s a very liberal place, so Conservatives’ beware. Anyway, my gal pals and I started here with a couple of beers and some food and listened to the poetry slam before we left.

We were all feeling the good vibes and moved on to The Twisted Tail. This is in the Society Hill section of South Street. The food is kind of uptown Southern Barbeque. We went there for the booze at the Southern Whiskey bar. And the music at the Juke Joint where talented local musicians play. That night a band called Mikey Jr. and the Stone-Cold Blues were playing. And then to top it all off there was a new musician and band who were playing Muddy Water’s Blues. By the time they got to Manish Boy, I was blown away. The singer could have been a reincarnation of Muddy Waters. And I was feeling no pain.

As I was throwing back my last whiskey a good-looking dude sat down next to me. And he asks if I wanted to dance. And that my friend was the beginning of a life-changing moment in my life. You know that little voice you hear in your head sometimes telling you, no don’t do it. Well, my little voice was screaming it at the top of its little non-existing lungs. But I was too far gone to hear it or care and I said yes.

Once I looked into his deep brown eyes, I was lost. I was his, for the taking. Next thing I know I got my jacket and told my best gal pal, Alicia, that I was leaving with this dude and would talk to her later. She tried to talk me out of it. They all did. But I had stopped listening. I was out the door hanging on his arm. Barely able to stand let alone walk.

Alicia came over just before I went out the door and tried once again to dissuade me. She physically tried to pry me off his arm. But I would have none of it. And I told her to mind her own business. And that was the last they heard of me for ten days. Yes, my friends that good-looking dude was none other than Douglas.

Yes, I was missing in action for ten days. that was a first for me. My friends were frantic. They had no idea where I was. I really think I lost my mind. I only considered what I was feeling. And I was feeling no pain. I was in love or lust, or maybe both. Those ten days were intoxicating.  Every time he walked into the room. I literally swooned. After ten days, Douglas decided he needed to go back to work and pick up the pieces. He left me a note saying it had been great fun. But the fun was over, and he had to get back to his real life.

Real-life, what the hell did that mean? I’m real. These last ten days seemed more real than any experience I had in my life up to this point. I was having none of it. He wasn’t going to toss me out like last week’s left-over Chinese food. I spent the rest of the morning ransacking his apartment. I got into his email. Can you believe he used the same password for every one of his accounts? And he had his password taped to the bottom of his laptop. What an amateur.

I looked at his Facebook account, his LinkedIn account, Twitter, his Tinder. I unfriended everyone on his Facebook account. Lastly, I blocked anyone on Tinder that I thought might get in my way. I changed his passwords for everything, and I copied his new passwords. I looked at his documents. I left no stone unturned. I happen to keep a jump drive in my purse, and I copied all relevant information. I even looked at all his online bank accounts. I moved some of his money from his checking and savings account into long-term CDs.

Douglas never asked for my phone number or address or my cell. He doesn’t even know my last name. He may be finished with me, But I’m not finished with him. Not by a long shot. He may not know my last name or address, but I know everything about him, and I mean everything. I looked in his address book on his phone while he was taking a shower. And I copied all his contact information, including family, friends, and workplace.

I cleaned every surface that I might have touched. I put all the dishes into the dishwasher and turned it on. I washed the clothes, sheets, and towels in hot water. Douglas’ apartment had probably never been this clean dare I say antiseptic since day one. And then I began to exact my revenge. Oh, you thought I already exacted my revenge. Hardly, I believe I mentioned that I’m creative. Well, my creativity is not limited to, painting and writing.

Day one- I contacted Alicia first by text, and after she unloaded a raft of shit on me via texts. I called her. Unfortunately, I should have given her a little more time to simmer down. Her anger was still boiling over. “Del, where the hell have you been? We have been looking all over for you. We made a police report that you were a missing person. We called your parents. We all were sure that that guy murdered you, cut you up in little pieces, and threw you in the Schuylkill River. Del, they dragged the river. You are going to have to talk to the police. I’ll text you the name and number of the detective that was, or I guess is investigating your disappearance. His name is Detective Dan Shaw.

“Del, it was in the Philadelphia Inquirer.”  “For reals? Are you kidding?” No, I’m not kidding. Your parents are a mess; they think you’re probably dead. No, I’m not joking. Have you lost your mind? We were all worried, sick.”

I tried to interject some reason here. But Alicia was having none of it. God, can’t a girl go a little crazy once in a while? I mean, you’re only young once, for crying out loud. So, I made plans to get together with her and Dolores and Candice, and Thelma for dinner that night at the Pussy Cat. It’s a kind of a dive bar in Deptford, NJ, near the Mall. But they have the most fabulous spicy Chicken Wings in South Jersey.

After I spoke to Alicia, I called my mother. When my mother picked up the phone, she immediately started crying. And then she started yelling. It seemed that this was going to be a new theme with everyone I talk to in the near future. I was starting to feel a little guilty for not letting them know what I was up to. But not that guilty. I have a right to my privacy, don’t I? I assured her I was fine, and I apologized over and over again. Then my dad got on the phone and read me the riot act. I guess I could expect more of this at the Pussy Cat when I saw my other girlfriends. I will try to deflect the tirade by starting with an apology, right off the bat.

Meanwhile, I got busy with my plan for Douglas. The basic plan was to make him regret using me and then ditch me like a bad habit. And then regretting the day he was born. I started sending emails to his boss at Megger International, describing some of the things Douglas had done to me. I copied that email to all his co-workers and close friends. And all his past girlfriends and on Tinder for any possible future girlfriends.

I was feeling a little jazzed for some reason. I guess I was feeling a sense of accomplishment. I didn’t stop for a minute to consider the possible consequence of my actions, not even for a minute. I found it divine retribution. Not that I felt sorry for my actions and how they would affect Douglas. But how it possibly affects me. I think I had every right to destroy Douglas’ little world and his pathetic life. Look what he did to me. Told me he loved me, adored me even. We were meant to be together forever. Men have been doing this to women forever. And it is time for it to stop.

My coup d’état was when I showed up at his place of employment, Megger international. They were having a meeting for all the top-performing employees at a special luncheon to thank them for their outstanding service to the company. I knew all this because I have been hacking into his work email. God, he had made it so easy.

I arrived just as the plant manager was standing in front of all the employees to hand out bonuses and announce raises. I saw Douglas sitting at one of the front tables. He seemed poised to stand up. I started to slowly move forward to the front of the large meeting room. I was going to start crying and telling everyone what a shit he was when he was finished speaking. But that never happened because as his name was called, Douglas sensed my presence somehow and looked over at me.

And I stepped forward he launched himself across the front of the room and toward me. He started choking me.   I was kicking and scratching. I was no match for his strength. I don’t think I mentioned that Douglas was over six and a half feet tall and cut. It looks like he spent a lot of time working out at the gym. He was shaking me like a dog with a bone. And then, at the last possible moment, I pulled the knife out of my jacket pocket and stabbed him a couple of times in the upper chest. Which was all I could manage, considering he was wringing my neck?

That was also when several of his co-workers and boss jumped on me and restrained me. Someone punched me really hard in the face. I don’t know who. But I intend to find out, and they will be sorry. The last thing I remember is the police putting me in handcuffs and shoving me in the back of the squad car. And that is all she wrote. And here I’m standing before you all ad innocent women trying to defend my honor. Nothing more. I was just defending myself, nothing more.

The Foundling

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I had decided to spend the day at the Philadelphia Library. I have been working on my family history for the past ten years, and I wanted to search the census records for the period of time between 1900 and 1920. I am studying my father’s side of the family.

Philadelphia Central Library

I knew that he was an only child and had been raised from the age of seven until he was sixteen at Girard College. During that time, Girard College was a residential school for boys only. The only requirement was that one of their parents was deceased. His father passed away when he was five from uremic poisoning.

It was a beautiful crisp autumn day, so I decided to take the high-speed line over to Philly.  I arrived about a half-hour before the library opened. So I decided to walk around the corner to grab something to eat for breakfast at Whole Foods.

I bought a small container of yogurt and green tea. Whole Foods is a great food store, but they are pricey. It cost almost six dollars for these two items. I devoured the yogurt as I hadn’t eaten any dinner the night before. The tea was hot, so I sipped slowly. It was good. I’m something of a tea connoisseur. At any given moment, I can name fifty different brands and types of teas.

Unfortunately, very few people seem particularly interested in hearing my list, although some have suffered in silence as I listed them in alphabetical order. I know they don’t want to hear it, but somehow, I feel compelled to tell them.

First, I see their eyes shift from right to left, looking for a way out of the conversation. It isn’t a conversation, more of a monologue. I give them very little chance to break away. I keep talking at breakneck speed. I see their eyes glazing over, I know that they are not listening anymore, but still, I persist, naming my favorite teas, or pies, or ice cream. I have a list for just about any subject.

I decided to walk across the street to the Book Corner, a used book store operated by the Central Library. It is filled with used and donated books. Oh yes, I forgot to mention that I also collect books.

Books fill every inch of space in my two-bedroom apartment, stacked on tables, chairs, under tables and chairs, under my bed, and on the side of my bed that I don’t sleep on. People have told me that I am a hoarder of books. I say I ‘m a bibliophile. I love the feel, smell, and touch of old books. My favorite books are art books with full-color plates of art, every type of art, and periods of history. I’m a collector of many things, mostly useless facts that no one wants to hear or know about.  woman holding book

I almost purchase a book on Jasper Johns, one of my favorite abstract expressionist artists. But I talked myself out of it. Since I already had this self-same book at home in one of my piles.

I start walking up the street behind the library, and I see something on the sidewalk. I quickstepped up to it and lean over and pick it up. It’s a watch, a stunning watch. I don’t own valuable jewelry myself, but I certainly recognize quality when I see it. It’s gold, a women’s watch, with a mesh watch band. There are twenty-eight small diamonds surrounding the watch face. There is a small stone on the stem of the watch, I think a blue Topaz.

I turn over the watch and look on the back there is an inscription it reads: To BlJ, from JPO, and then some words in French. My high school French is somewhat rusty since I graduated. Well, let’s just say quite a few decades ago. I decided to type the phrase into Google translator when I finally got into the library.

When I arrive at the library, I fly up the steps and push open the beautiful ornate doors. I’m never disappointed when I enter the library, they have recently remodeled the first floor, and it is fabulous. The new entry floor is gleaming marble, all new showcases. I look at each one and study its contents.

Oh, there’s going to be a visit from an author. Oh, I definitely will sign up for that. I’ll purchase a copy of her book and have it autographed by her. I feel slightly buzzed being around all this beauty and the thousands upon thousands of stacks of books on every subject.

I should have been a librarian, but I wouldn’t have gotten any work done since I would have been reading all day instead of whatever librarians are supposed to be doing. Besides, I have observed that librarians are a bit on the strange side, either very quirky and annoyed by visitors or very formal, as if they’re famous professors who don’t have the time to speak to a visitor. If I worked there, I would probably be a little of both and get fired after a month.

I check my pockets to see if my treasure is still there. It is, but I know that I will check my pocket many times to be sure. It is one of my quirky traits, excessive checking of things. Checking to see if I really locked the door or turned off the iron, or didn’t accidentally run over a cat that I thought was a bump in the road. I’m just being cautious, that’s all.

I enter the main book room next to the entrance. I‘m so pleased with the remodel it’s dazzling. I run over to the computer and go onto the Internet, Google translator. I type in the phase Mon amour éternel. It means my eternal love. God, that is so romantic. The poor soul that lost this must be heartbroken. Imagine losing such a  keepsake.

I almost start to cry right there in the middle of the library. I start imagining what it must be like to have someone promise their eternal love. I have never had that, I want it, and now I know it is probably too late for me, but still, I keep my eyes open. You never know what might happen. I want to find a way to return the watch to the owner, but I don’t know what to do.

I approach the man who works at the main information desk, and he is one of the standoffish types, very formal. I’m not certain, but I believe he has some type of vision impairment, or he can’t bear to look anyone in the eyes. “Hello, can you tell me if there’s a lost and found?’ He doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my presence in any way. He starts typing on his keyboard. Perhaps he has a hearing deficit as well. I repeat my question only louder. Nothing.

Then somewhat abruptly, he says, “No book by that name but several containing that subject matter. Let me print it out for you. ”

“What, no, no you misunderstood. I’m asking if the library has a lost and found. You know you find or lose something and check to see if anyone turned it in, or you find something and turn it in. ”

“Go to the service desk. They might have an answer for you. I do not. ”

“But isn’t this the service desk?” I roll my eyes to the heavens. It’s lost on him. He has dismissed me from his mind. I no longer exist in his world. In my opinion, the library made a poor choice when they placed him at the central hall information desk. He should be sitting in the subbasement somewhere, filing something.

I walk over to the main room again toward the librarian. There are only two now since most of them were replaced by an automated checkout system. I wait patiently in line until it’s my turn. I repeat my question, “Have you got a lost and found?”

” This is the check-in or check-out department. You need to go to the service desk and ask Mr. Beaumont. He will be happy to assist you.”

“But I did speak to Mr. Beaumont. He didn’t assist me. He sent me to you. What do you suggest now?”

“Perhaps you could ask Charles, at the exit to the library; he’s the guard that checks all books as you exit the library.”

“Charles, thank you I’ll speak to him.” I walk over to the library exit, and Charles is sitting looking through a large stack of books that an older gentleman is checking out.

I have seen him before. He looks like an aesthetic, or perhaps the English actor who is tall and thin, was some sort of magician in Lord of the Rings he has very long, shiny gray hair, down to his waist, I have often seen him when I visited the art department of the library. He always keeps to himself, is surrounded by books, and spends the day taking notes, in a leather notebook.

I patiently wait for my turn. Finally, I step up to Charles, “Hello, could you tell me if the library has a lost and found?” As I’m waiting, I recheck my pocket to make sure the watch is there.

“Yes, what are you looking for?”

“I’m not looking for anything; I found something.”

“Well, I can’t help you with that, other than you write down, what you have found on this form, and a contact number or email, and I will give them your information.”

“Alright, let’s do that.” I finally feel like I’m making some headway. I give Charles my information, “Thank you, Charles, you have been helpful.”

I head over to the elevator, push the button for the second floor, and wait as it slowly makes its way down from the third floor. The doors slide open. They remodeled the elevator, too, and it looks like it belongs in a luxury hotel. I step inside, and somehow it has not lost that urine smell it always had. I hold my breath until the doors open to the second floor, make a right turn down the first hall, through the literature department, and find my way into the art department.

Oh, crap, I think. What am I doing here? I meant to go to the records department and study the census. I head to the elevator and back to the records department. I arrive safely. I step up to the desk and ask the librarian to help me find the census for 1900-1930.

She’s accommodating. I look at the records, which are digital copies of the original census books. However, the books were all handwritten and somewhat challenging to read. I spend the next three hours looking through them, meeting with some success. I find the record where my father is listed as an inmate of Girard College. An inmate, as if he were a criminal in prison. This upset me so much that I turn off the machine and decided to head home.

I buy a hotdog from the vendor on the corner, such a cheerful fellow. I say, “Thank you.”

I head towards the bus stop that will get me to the High Speedline. I arrived at the Speedline intake, and I believe I checked my pocket about fifteen times before I got on the train.

I head home, and I notice that my stomach is starting to feel a little queasy, and by the time we get over the bridge to the Camden stop, I know that I have gotten food poisoning.

I rush off the train, and I’m forced to use the public facility. Dear god, I think I will be able to make it home! I do, but just barely. I take some medicine for my stomach. It doesn’t really help. I spend the next ten hours in and on the toilet. Finally, I start to feel better. I go to the kitchen. I feel so empty and get some tea and crackers.

I decided to check my email; to my surprise, I have five hundred emails. I open the first one; Bill declares it is his watch, and he wants it back. I open the next ten; they’re all the same. I realize that I have made a mistake in describing the watch. All the rest are the same.

Chivalry has died, and so has my trust in humanity. I will put the watch away or perhaps donate it to some worthwhile charity. I think of the woman who lost her watch and said a silent prayer for her. She has lost something that was close to her heart, and so have I.

LITTLE MAMA

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Little Mama slowly opens her eyes and squints at the bright morning sun. The wind has died down. Last night she listened to the eerie tune the trees made as the wind blew its way through the woods. She makes a nest of leaves and sticks and spends the night there as the storm rages.

It isn’t raining anymore, but everything looks different. Branches are strewn all over, and even a few trees have fallen to the ground.  Little Mama stands up unsteadily. She looks through the tree branches in search of fallen bird nests.

If she’s lucky, maybe she would be able to find a baby bird or two. Late yesterday when she left her nest in search of food, she knew there was a storm brewing, but she is extremely hungry. She needs to eat so she could nurse her babies. They are sound asleep when she leaves.

But that was yesterday, anything could have happened to them. The kits barely have their eyes open. Just as Little Mama is about to give up, she sees a baby bird lying lifeless on the ground.

She smells it and determines it hasn’t been dead that long and swallows it whole. She runs over the branches and debris along the path until Frightened that one of her kits has wandered off. Last winter she had lost her kittens due to her near starvation. Winter is never a good time to give birth to a litter. But she has little control over when these things happen.

As she makes her way over to the nest, she smells each of her mewling kittens. She realizes that one of them is missing.  The one who always tries to climb out of the nest? Her heart sinks a little at the thought of another lost kit. 

Nature is cruel, and she has learned the best way to learn is with acceptance. She’ll take care of the rest of her litter as best as she can. Until they can take care of themselves. When they’re about six weeks old, she’ll begin to teach them how to hunt. She’ll wean them off her milk.

She lies down on her side in the nest. It’s a little damp but still warm from the five kittens. That lie, sleeping bundled together. As soon as they sense their, mother they crawl over and find a place to nurse. They push and shove each other out of the way until they taste the sweet milk. They are safe and warm. Little Mama signs and falls into a fast sleep exhausted from her stormy adventure.

Big Red stumbles and cries, his stomach aching from hunger. He has been looking for his mother all night. Finally, he gives up his search. He finds shelter in the hollow of a tree under some fallen leaves.

When the morning wakes him up, once again his stomach is growling. He has no memory of ever feeling this gnawing pain in his stomach. He can’t think of anything else. He even stops wondering what has become of his mother.

Just as he is about to give up, Big Red sees something fluttering in the air just above his head. He doesn’t know what it is, but his instinct tells him to get it. He jumps as high as he can. And grabs it with his sharp claws. He can hardly believe it.

And he chomps down on it, and it stops moving. He swallows it. It tastes good. It’s warm and fills his stomach the same way as his mother’s milk had. He decides to find a place to take a nap. He starts walking forward through the woods until he sees another tree. He is looking for a hollow place to sleep. He finds it and crawls underneath the damp leaves. He feels satisfied with himself. He wonders what he will do next. And with that thought, he falls fast asleep.

No Good News After Midnight

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Gina stumbles into bed late and drunk. She knows she’ll wake up feeling rough, real rough. In the distance, the phone rings. She puts the pillow over her head. The answering machine takes the call after three rings. Five minutes later, it starts ringing again.

Gina grabs the phone. She growls, “Whoever this is, it better be good.”

“Gina, it’s me. I’ve been trying to get hold of you all night. Your mother is in the hospital. She’s really bad, you better get here right away, or you’re never going to see her alive again.”

“Yeah, so? I’ve been dead to her for years.” 

“Gina, come. You need to make this right for yourself if nothing else. There’s a ticket waiting for you at JFK. It’s leaving in two hours. I texted you the information. I’ll meet you at the other end.” The phone disconnects.

Gina is sweating now, her stomach is churning, and she reaches over to her bedside table and grabs the nearest bottle. It’s a warm bottle of Johnny Walker. She throws it back in one swallow, choking. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Mumbles, “Fuck me, fuck me.”

She rolls out of bed and makes her way to the bathroom. She turns on the light and winces, covering her eyes. They feel like hard-boiled eggs. She throws cold water on her face and relieves herself. She pictures her mother on her deathbed; it seems impossible that evil can’t die. She feels nothing for her mother. She ceased to exist for her so long ago. it almost seems like another life, someone else’s life. Gina pulls a brush through her hair. It’s a lost cause. She leaves it.

Her bedroom closet is another disaster. She pulls her suitcase out and throws it on the unmade bed. She opens it. It still has clothes in it from some long-forgotten trip. Gina dumps the clothes on the floor. They join all the clothes that met a similar fate. She kicks them out of her way.

Then Gina empties her underwear drawer into the suitcase and whatever clean clothes that remain in her closet. Throws on a pair of jeans and a somewhat clean T-shirt from a long-ago concert. She grabs her boots and plops down on the bed hard, regrets it immediately. Her head starts spinning.

She makes a run to the toilet. Johnny Walker comes rocketing out, just missing the toilet. Gina groans as her stomach lurch. She opens the cabinet for some pills of any kind. But only finds a bottle of aspirin and an old prescription of oxy. Two left. She dry swallows them both. They burn all the way down, but they stay down.

Somehow, she makes it back to her bedroom and pulls on an ancient leather jacket some one-night stand left behind years ago. She takes one look around and spots her purse on the back of the couch. She grabs it and her keys and heads out the door.  Slams the door closed. It bounces back open. She keeps walking.

Gina makes it to the airport in record time. By the time she gets to the long-term parking, her car is running on fumes. She opens the trunk and pulls her suitcase out and slams the trunk closed, and locks the door.

The painkillers are kicking in. She makes it to the check-in counter at the last possible moment and carries her luggage onto the plane. Gina pitches unsteadily down the aisle and finds her seat. She jams her suitcase under the seat.

She lands in the seat relatively unscathed and falls immediately into a drugged sleep. She floats dreamlessly through the flight and wakes up only when she feels the plane landing. There are only a few other passengers on the plane. They all look as if they had a bad day and expect only bad days to come.

Jimmy is the only occupant in the receiving area. He would be hard to miss either way. Jimmy is big, really big. His head is bald and shining. He’s in his motorcycle gear. Gina hadn’t seen him in years, but she would recognize him anywhere, anytime. He’s the only member of her family that ever gave a damn.

“Crap, please tell me that you didn’t come here on your Harley, Jimmy?”

“No, Gina, I didn’t. I borrowed my friend Skit’s beater. Let’s go. We’ll go straight to the hospital.”

As they leave the icy cold air of the airport, Gina follows Jimmy through the revolving door and immediately hits a wall of superheated air. It takes her breath away, and she feels her stomach heave. “Sweet Jesus, we have stepped into the bowels of hell. I hate this fricking place. How can you still be living in this swamp?”

“It’s home, Gina. Let’s go; the car’s in short-term parking.”

As they drive towards the hospital, the sun starts to rise. It is a surreal mixture of pinks and golds. “Gina, your mom doesn’t look too good. She’s been awake on and off for the past couple of days. She has been hanging on for you.”

“Me, why would she give a damn? I haven’t heard from her in years. So, am I supposed to be the prodigal daughter returning home and pretending to give a shit?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

Gina doesn’t say anything else for the duration of the trip. She looks at the landscape in the early morning light. Row after row of strip malls and ugly scrub pines line the cracked and bumpy highway. Some things change, but some things remain the same, just like her mother, no doubt, deathbed or not.

They pull into the parking lot, and Jimmy leads the way. He speaks to a weary-looking old man at the reception desk and comes back with two visitors’ cards. Let’s go. We don’t have time to waste.”

They take the elevator to intensive care. Jimmy makes a left out of the elevator. It looks as if he has taken this path many times before. As they enter the dimly lit room, Gina sees what looks like a corpse lying in the first bed. God, this could not be her tough-as-nails mother. Jimmy walks past the corpse-like woman.

He walks over to the second bed. Gina holds her breath, not knowing what to expect. She looks down at the bed, and there she is, her mother or what’s left of her. Her skin is almost translucent. Her hair thinly covers her scalp. Her eyelids flutter open. At first, she seems to stare blindly, then her eyes focus, and she whispers, “Gina?” Her voice gains strength. “Well, it’s about damn time, girl.” The fire is still in her eyes.

Gina looks straight into her eyes. “Yes, mother, it’s about damn time you ask to see me. You know it’s been over ten years. I can’t say it’s good seeing you. You look like hell.”

“Well, girl, you’re not looking too good yourself. You look like you been rode hard and put down wet.”

“Yeah, you always had a way with words, mother.”

“OK, girls, play nice. I’m going to go get a coffee. I’ll be back in a few.” He turns and walks out of the room without looking back.

Gina pulls up a chair next to her mother’s bedside. She moves from side to side in the chair and tries to find some comfortable way to sit. There isn’t any. “Fucking hospitals, I hate them.”

“Nice mouth you got on ya, Gina.”

“Yeah, who do you think I got it from? So why am I here? Why now?”

“Why now? If not now, when Gina?”

Gina stares back at her mother, still feeling a little buzz from the oxy and a little sick from the booze. She can’t imagine what she’s supposed to do or say in this situation. She decides to wait. Her mother will eventually tell her what she wants. She waits. There was always a price to pay with her mother.

“Gina, here’s the thing, the docs have told me I don’t have long. I want you to stay until I’m gone. Then I want you to take care of the funeral arrangements, the house, and all the other shit that needs to be done. I have it all written down. It’s in my bedroom closet in a shoebox marked Tony.”

“So, I haven’t heard word one from you in ten years, and you want me to hang around here and watch you die. For all you know, I was dead. Then you want me to take care of all the shit you left behind. Why didn’t you ask Jimmy to take care of it like always? Why me, Mom?”

“I knew where you were and what you been up to. How do you think Jimmy knew how to contact you? I’m asking you because you are my only daughter. And I wanted the chance to make things right between us before I died; that’s it.”

“That’s it, that’s it? What are you going to say to me that would ever make things right between us? Growing up in our house was like growing up in a war zone. You and Dad were always fighting. You were drunk half of the time, not giving a shit about me. How are you going to make that right? How?”

“Look, Gina, I know I wasn’t a great mother. I wasn’t the mother you deserved, but I was the mother you got. I did what I did. I can’t change that. But I always loved you. I want you to forgive me, for yourself, not me. I know I don’t deserve it.

Maybe then you can try not to make the same mistakes as me. Stop drinking and partying, get a regular life, find somebody who loves you, and be happy.”

“Be happy, yeah, right. I wouldn’t know happiness if it came up and bit me on the ass. I’ll stay here and take care of your business. Then I’m out of here. Thank god, here comes Jimmy.”

As Jimmy walks into the room, he walks past the living corpse. And he takes a look at Gina and his sister, Betty. He hands Gina a hot coffee. Be careful; it’s hot as hell and tastes like mud. But it’ll do the job.”

He pulls up a chair on the other side of the bed. He looks down at his sister. She is out of it. Her breath is shallow. He looks at Gina. Her mouth is pursed. She looks beat. They wait.

Three hours later, Gina wakes to an alarm and looks at her mother. Her skin is damp and gray. Her mouth is slack. People come rushing into the room. They push them out of the way and tell them to wait outside. They wait. There is nothing left to say.

The nurses and the doctor come out of the room. Jimmy and Gina look at his face. It has no expression. He walks up to them and says, “sorry, she’s gone. There was nothing we could do for her.” And he walks away on his way to deliver bad news to somebody else’s family, no doubt.” Gina, do you want to go in and say goodbye to your mother?”

“No, I said all I’m going to say to her in this life. Let’s go. I need to get some real sleep and then get a shower. I’m not staying long, and I will take care of her business, then I’m out of here.”

Jimmy drives them over to his sister’s house in silence. It’s been a long day that followed other long days. “Here we are. Here’s the key. Do you need some money? I don’t know if there is any food in the house?” He hands her some crumbled-up bills, leans past her, and opens the car door. He pops the trunk. And he says,” I’ll call you later today or tomorrow.”

Gina gets out of the car and walks to the back of the car, and pulls out her bag. Slams the trunk closed a little harder than was necessary.

She walks away and waves goodbye to him while driving out of sight. She makes her way up the sidewalk, which is strewn with yellowed newspapers and trash. The grass is overgrown and adorned with broken beer bottles and unidentifiable garbage. It’s been there so long that whatever odor it once had no longer remains. “Home sweet home.” Gina jams the key home into the lock, and it turns reluctantly.

The door swings in, and so does Gina. “God damn, it looks worse inside than out.” Gina glances around at the chaos and walks slowly up the stairway to her old bedroom. The carpet on the stairs is stained and worn through in spots. It’s the same carpet that was there throughout her childhood. Puke green looks like it hasn’t seen a vacuum since she left ten years ago. As she is walking down the hall towards her bedroom, she thinks, hell no, I don’t want to live like this, end up like her. Shit, shit, shit.

Her bedroom is covered in dust and filled with boxes of god knows what. She kicks them out the door and down the steps. Stuff falls out of the boxes and tumbles down the steps. Gina steps over to the bed and pushes off all the crap that is on it. She strips the bed and walks out to the hall closet, and finds some sheets that look like they might fit the bed. The sheet design screams the 1980s, with gaudy colors and an insane mixture of patterns. She makes up the bed and falls into it without even bothering to take off her clothes.

When she wakes up, the burning sun is streaming through the window. The mini-blinds are at half-mast on one side. The other side has long ago ceased to function. Gina is covered in sweat because she forgot to turn on the air conditioning last night. And the room is steaming and stinking.

She throws her legs over the side of the bed, and that’s when her head starts pounding, and her stomach starts roiling. She makes her way carefully to the bathroom. “Shit, what a fucking hole this place is.” She makes her way back into the hallway and, by some miracle, finds a clean towel.

Back in the bathroom, she looks in the medicine cabinet and finds an ancient bottle of aspirin and throws a handful in her mouth, and chews them. She turns on the spigot, and the water runs brown, then yellow. When it finally runs clear, she puts her mouth under the stream and gulps down enough to get the bitter taste out of her mouth.

She takes a shower in the tub after running the water for fifteen minutes to rinse out all the crap that was on the bottom. It’s still stained. Gina hopes she won’t get a  fatal disease from it. As she stands in the ice-cold stream of water, she thinks about her mother. And this house and all the memories that are attached to it. She thinks about the box and the nightmares it might release into her already fucked up life.

After getting out of the shower, Gina wipes the fog from the mirror and looks at the face reflected there. For a startling moment, she sees her mother’s worn and broken face looking back at her. She finds a comb on the top of the toilet and pulls it through her short, spiky hair.

She doesn’t know if she has the courage to get through the next few days. She tries to summon strength from the core of her being. She reminds herself that she’s gotten through worse shit, and she can handle this crap too. Hell, this is nothing compared to what she’s endured for the last ten years. Why this is just a walk in the park?

She hears the phone ringing from the kitchen. She throws on some clothes and runs down the steps. It’s Jimmy. He left a message saying he would pick her up in two hours to go to the undertaker’s office.

Gina goes into the kitchen and looks into the frig, a couple of beer bottles, a jar of mustard, and a couple of bread crusts. She’s tempted to drink the beers but doesn’t. She looks in the cabinet and finds a half-empty jar of peanut butter, the store-brand kind. She slaps some on the bread and swallows it. Her stomach protests, but she keeps it down.

Gina goes upstairs to brush her teeth and then remembers she didn’t bring her toothbrush. She finds a tube of toothpaste and cleans her teeth with her finger. Well, the good times keep coming. She let out a harsh laugh and spit.

Exactly two hours later, Jimmy pulls into the driveway. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved dress shirt and chinos. He knocks on the front door and sticks his head in the door, and calls out, “Gina, it’s me, Jimmy.”

Gina comes through the living room to the front door, “come in, Jimmy.”

“Hey, it looks different in here. What happened?”

“What happened I just spent the last two hours throwing out all the trash down here and trying to clean it up as much as possible. This house was an absolute pigsty. When was the last time my mother cleaned this place up, the millennium?”

“Your mother was never much for housework. She spent most of her time throwing back beers and playing cards with her cronies.”

“They played here. Wow, that’s hard to believe.”

“No, they played at her friend Ginny’s house every Tuesday and Friday, then they hit the bars and stayed until closing time.”

“Wow, she enjoyed her golden years, didn’t she? You know, there’s no way I’m going to end up like this. Living in your own filth in a purple haze. There has to be something better than that.”

“Gina, your life is whatever you make of it. You have to stop blaming your mother for how your life has turned out. You have been calling all the shots for the past ten years, not her. Maybe you should decide what you want out of life and then find ways to get there.”

“Well, haven’t you turned out to be quite a preacher? I think you’ve been known to keep a few bars open late yourself.”

“Gina, I’ve been clean for eight years. You can clean up your act too. You don’t have to end up like your mom.”

After meeting with the funeral director Jimmy and Gina went to Al Joe’s for lunch. A waitress who looks as if she’s working here all her life asks,” Do you need to see a menu?”

“No, I’ll have a Poor Boy with all the fixings and ginger ale.”

“Yeah, I’ll have the same, thanks. Could I have a coffee, black? ”

After eating, Jimmy says, “did your mother ask you to do anything special for her funeral?”

“She told me there was a box in her bedroom closet with instructions, but I haven’t got the nerve up to go in there yet. I’ll do it tonight; then I’ll let you know.”

“Ok, if you’re finished, I’m ready to go.”

“Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s hit the road. Jimmy, I want to thank you for always being there for me when I needed somebody.”

“Hey, we may be a dysfunctional family, but we’re still family. That’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know about that, Jimmy. You’re the only person that ever gave a good goddamn about me.” Jimmy hugs her as they stand up to leave. They head out the door. The heat hits them in full force as they leave the air-conditioned restaurant. “God, I just can’t believe anyone would choose to live in this little bit of hell.”

When Gina gets back to her mother’s house, she refuses to think of it as her home. She pulls whatever reserves she has left within her to go up to her mother’s bedroom.

She opens the bedroom door with some difficulty. She has to pull it with both hands on the doorknob. When the door finally opens, she holds her breath against the smell of sickness, old age, stale cigarettes, and beer. She looks at the room, and aside from ten years of accumulated grime, it’s pretty much the same as when she was a kid. Cheap furniture, an overstuffed chair with Chintz cabbage rose print and a TV with rabbit ears circa 1970 something. “God damn.”

Gina walks over to the bedroom closet and looks inside, and sees clothes from every decade hanging limply on wire hangers. The newest looks to be from the late 1990s. She grabs the footstool and steps up on it and roots around the top shelf, and finally grabs a shoebox labeled Tony from Neiman Marcus in NYC.

“Well, shit, who would have thought she ever owned anything that didn’t come off the clearance shelf of Walmart.” Gina carries the box over to the old chair and sits down. She hesitates before she opens it. Fearing at the last moment what might be in the note from her mother.

In the box, there is delicate tissue paper sprinkled with small yellow roses. Underneath the paper is a pair of white satin shoes with kitten heels, lined with pale pink silk, size six. Outlining the edge are small cutouts of hearts and ribbons. There is a pink bow on the back of the shoes. They’re the most beautiful shoes that Gina has ever seen. Gina tries to imagine her mother ever wearing anything so fine. She can’t. And she picks up the shoe and smells it. There is a faint smell of honeysuckles that still lingers.

Inside one of the shoes is a small photo. The picture is of a young girl, perhaps sixteen years old, wearing an old fashion prom dress. The dress is fitted to her small waist and flares out into a tea-length skirt. Her light brown hair is pulled up into a chignon with bangs framing her heart-shaped face. She looks so young. The smile on her face reflects the happiness she must have been feeling at the moment this photo was taken. The effect of that smile is so mesmerizing that Gina almost feels pulled into that frozen moment. She turns over the photograph, and in a delicate hand is written Elizabeth’s senior prom 1962.

“Elizabeth, who?” And then Gina realizes that this must be her mother on the night of her senior prom. Gina does not remember a smile that wide and radiant ever gracing her mother’s face in her life. She wonders what happened in the years between the time this picture was taken and the time she was born. Gina realizes she has never really thought about her mother as ever being more than just her mother. That she, too, must have been a young person with hopes and dreams of her own. That somewhere, it all went wrong for her.

Gina feels a tear roll down her cheek and lets it fall. She cries for her mother’s lost dreams and wasted life. She cries for the mother whose love always seemed so elusive. She cries for all the lost years. Hopes that her mother had more than this brief moment of happiness in her life. She is about to put the shoes back into the box when Gina glimpses a note among the tissue paper. Gina unfolds the note it reads.

 Dear Gina,

 I’m leaving these shoes for you as a reminder that life is fleeting, and you have to hold onto those happy moments. No one can give or make you happy. Only you have the power to bring happiness and love into your life. Only you can imagine your dreams and make them happen. Happiness is a gift that you give to yourself. I’m leaving you this house and my life insurance policy. These small gifts won’t make you happy, but I hope they can give you a new start. I know you don’t believe it, but I always loved you very much and wished only the best for you. Love. Mother

Gina folds the note and places it inside the box with the shoes, and puts the lid on. She thinks that this might be one of the happiest and saddest moments of her life.

A week after the funeral, Gina puts up For Sale sign outside the house and settles all the bills. Jimmy drives her to the airport and gives her a big hug as she boards the airplane. “Gina, please don’t be a stranger. Give your old uncle a call once in a while.”

“I will, Jimmy, I love you, and I’ll be in touch.”