(U is for umbilical and uncle)
When her water broke, Brenna was napping, unable to get comfortable enough for a deep sleep. The trickle on her leg roused her, and she pushed up from the bed. Maybe now the contractions would start in earnest, and this overdue baby would get born.
“Eight days late,” she scolded her round abdomen. “I’m more than ready to meet you.”
Brenna glanced at the other half of the queen bed, still empty. Isaac hadn’t somehow changed his mind and snuck back home. Three months into this pregnancy—she had just begun to show—he decided he didn’t want to be a father. And just like that, she was on her own.
Except for Russ.
Russ was Isaac’s best friend, and then Brenna’s after Isaac walked out.
“You’ll be uncle to Sebastian,” Brenna told him when he drove her to her prenatal visits. He sat with her at her exams, bought her peppermint patties, which she craved, and rubbed her feet in the evening, after a long day working at the greenhouse. She brought him to childbirth classes and introduced him as her brother. She wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted from Russ beyond his emotional support. He wasn’t her husband. She didn’t think of him as a lover. But she owed him for all he’d done for her.
Russ was at her door by the time she had changed clothes and zipped up her hospital bag.
“They’re five, six minutes apart,” she told him.
He rolled his eyes. “Which is it – five or six? It’s important, remember?”
“Probably more like five—“ She stopped and leaned on him, her right hand supporting her abdomen.
After several long moments, she straightened up.
“Bad, huh?” He helped her into his car and made sure she was belted in.
“Let me put it this way, don’t get a ticket for speeding, but get this piece of crap on the road or Sebastian will be arriving on the shoulder.”
Isaac was waiting at the hospital ER entrance.
“What’s he doing here?” Brenna slowly emerged from the car. The contractions had sped up, and she had to pause again before she could walk.
“I had to call him,” Russ said. “He’s the father.”
“He’s a coward and a jerk and I don’t want him around me right now.” She walked past Isaac without speaking to him, her lips set and a frown on her face.
Eight o’clock became eleven o’clock became three o’clock, and Brenna moved into the second stage. Russ rubbed her shoulders, gave her sips of ice water, and whispered words of encouragement, and she pushed, each groan deep and guttural. Her body quivered with the effort. At four fifty-eight, Sebastian’s head crowned. A few more pushes, and he was out. Brenna lay back, exhausted and exhilarated, grinning at Russ. “We need to call my mom. My sister’s driving down right now. Where’s my cell? I’ll text my brother.” She babbled on, giddy.
The obstetrician broke in. “Do you want me to cut the umbilical cord, or does your friend want the honor?”
Brenna squeezed Russ’ arm. “You do it. You’re practically his dad.” Having Russ cut the cord would sever any last tender feelings she might have for Isaac. When he followed them into the hospital, she had forbidden him from entering the labor and delivery suite. “Where were you when I needed you?” She was near to tears. Russ walked him back to the waiting room and left him there.
The delivery nurse handed her a cleaned-up Sebastian, swaddled in a blue blanket, a tiny white knitted cap on his head. He howled with hunger. Brenna, with the nurse’s help, guided his mouth to her breast. He latched on and suckled vigorously.
Russ kissed her softly on top of her head. “Can Isaac see him?”
Brenna sighed. The peace she felt at the birth lingered. “Ten minutes.” Russ stood up. She studied her new son: Sebastian had Isaac’s sweet mouth. “Half an hour,” she said.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
(T is for tantalizing, truffle, and tongue)
Is there anything more delicious than hazelnuts enveloped in a thick coating of chocolate? Dark chocolate, preferably. The smooth outside, the crunch of the interior, the slight sweetness of the confection on my tongue—I could eat an entire box, and have on occasion.
The trouble is, the rest of my family feels the same way. No truffle lovers in my house. A gift box of creams stays intact until it goes stale. But if I bring home a dozen hazelnut chocolates from Just So Sweet candies, they are gone by the time I reach for a second helping. I warn my kids and my husband, Hands off. But the chocolates are just too tantalizing.
Toby gives me a box every birthday, but even that present isn’t sacrosanct. I may get one or two pieces to savor with my birthday dinner, but the rest are taken in a post-midnight raid to the kitchen. The family waits until it’s safely no longer my birthday to (over)indulge.
Hide them, you say? I have tried. No cupboard, no drawer is safe. I froze a box once, sure that would discourage the marauders. They were kind enough to leave me one lone chocolate. I guess they felt a twinge of guilt.
I have stashed boxes in the bedroom closet, in the laundry room, in the basement. All found. Putting them under my pillow seems too extreme, even for me. Besides, I would eat them in the middle of the night, drawn by the tempting aroma that reaches my nose despite the feathers and cardboard between me and them.
I admit that the solution would be to buy a bigger supply of chocolates, but frankly, that would probably bring on bankruptcy.
For now, I’ll just have to wait patiently—until the kids are grown and my husband hits the road. Then, I’ll have the box all to myself.
Is there anything more delicious than hazelnuts enveloped in a thick coating of chocolate? Dark chocolate, preferably. The smooth outside, the crunch of the interior, the slight sweetness of the confection on my tongue—I could eat an entire box, and have on occasion.
The trouble is, the rest of my family feels the same way. No truffle lovers in my house. A gift box of creams stays intact until it goes stale. But if I bring home a dozen hazelnut chocolates from Just So Sweet candies, they are gone by the time I reach for a second helping. I warn my kids and my husband, Hands off. But the chocolates are just too tantalizing.
Toby gives me a box every birthday, but even that present isn’t sacrosanct. I may get one or two pieces to savor with my birthday dinner, but the rest are taken in a post-midnight raid to the kitchen. The family waits until it’s safely no longer my birthday to (over)indulge.
Hide them, you say? I have tried. No cupboard, no drawer is safe. I froze a box once, sure that would discourage the marauders. They were kind enough to leave me one lone chocolate. I guess they felt a twinge of guilt.
I have stashed boxes in the bedroom closet, in the laundry room, in the basement. All found. Putting them under my pillow seems too extreme, even for me. Besides, I would eat them in the middle of the night, drawn by the tempting aroma that reaches my nose despite the feathers and cardboard between me and them.
I admit that the solution would be to buy a bigger supply of chocolates, but frankly, that would probably bring on bankruptcy.
For now, I’ll just have to wait patiently—until the kids are grown and my husband hits the road. Then, I’ll have the box all to myself.
(S is for superstitious, stunning, and sexy)
The four small, round clover leaves, once pliable, now stiff and dry, were pressed flat between the pages of The Hunt for Red October, Will’s favorite book. Hannah found them when she pulled the volume from the shelf and leafed through it. The clover fluttered to the living room floor and lay there between the packing boxes.
“Summer of ’02,” she said aloud, the day crisp in her memory. She felt the lake breeze on her face and the warm sun on her back as she searched the crop of clover for one with quadruple leaves. Will had laughed at her zealous mission. “So what if a clover has four leaves—nothing’s special about it.” Then he gently turned her face toward him. “What’s special is you.”
That day by the lake he said she was sexy, he called her stunning. These were words she never attached to herself, but that he said them must make them true. She did feel sexy that summer, and had her long brown hair cut in a style that accentuated her large hazel eyes.
She saved the clover she finally found, storing it on purpose in Will’s book. She wasn’t really superstitious, but you had to take luck when you found it. Perhaps the clover would keep Will safe.
And it did, on his first tour. He narrowly missed a firefight that killed two of his best friends. Traumatized by their deaths, he was transferred out of Iraq for a time, but the war dragged on and he re-upped. Hannah couldn’t talk him out of it.
“It’s like the Clancy book,” he said. “The enemy’s out there—you can’t see them, but you know they’re there. And they’ve got to be stopped.”
“You don’t have to do the stopping this time. You’ve already given two years of your life.”
Will paused in his packing. “Stan and Jared gave all of theirs.”
Hannah plunged back into her work at the preschool. When Will came back this time, they would start a family. He would enroll in manager training, and by the time their oldest was in preschool, he would be a company vice president.
By mid-fall, the mornings were chilly, and a mist rose in the hollows. With her sweater buttoned against the cold, Hannah pointed out the woolly caterpillars crawling along the preschool fence. “See their thick coats,” she said. “It’ll be a cold winter ahead.”
The school headmaster met her at the doorway, as she marched the children back inside. “Hannah.” The look on his face sent her stomach churning. “No,” she said.
The colonel waiting for her in the school office was polite and respectful, but she wanted him to cry with her. Will had been badly injured in an ambush in Falluja, and they didn’t expect him to live. He had been airlifted to a base in Cyprus, where he was undergoing surgery.
Will died the next day, on a bed thousands of miles from Hannah, with someone else holding his hand. At home, she sat in his usual easy chair. She caressed the armrests and pushed herself deep into the seat, trying to touch some elemental particle he might have left behind. All she felt was emptiness.
The four small, round clover leaves, once pliable, now stiff and dry, were pressed flat between the pages of The Hunt for Red October, Will’s favorite book. Hannah found them when she pulled the volume from the shelf and leafed through it. The clover fluttered to the living room floor and lay there between the packing boxes.
“Summer of ’02,” she said aloud, the day crisp in her memory. She felt the lake breeze on her face and the warm sun on her back as she searched the crop of clover for one with quadruple leaves. Will had laughed at her zealous mission. “So what if a clover has four leaves—nothing’s special about it.” Then he gently turned her face toward him. “What’s special is you.”
That day by the lake he said she was sexy, he called her stunning. These were words she never attached to herself, but that he said them must make them true. She did feel sexy that summer, and had her long brown hair cut in a style that accentuated her large hazel eyes.
She saved the clover she finally found, storing it on purpose in Will’s book. She wasn’t really superstitious, but you had to take luck when you found it. Perhaps the clover would keep Will safe.
And it did, on his first tour. He narrowly missed a firefight that killed two of his best friends. Traumatized by their deaths, he was transferred out of Iraq for a time, but the war dragged on and he re-upped. Hannah couldn’t talk him out of it.
“It’s like the Clancy book,” he said. “The enemy’s out there—you can’t see them, but you know they’re there. And they’ve got to be stopped.”
“You don’t have to do the stopping this time. You’ve already given two years of your life.”
Will paused in his packing. “Stan and Jared gave all of theirs.”
Hannah plunged back into her work at the preschool. When Will came back this time, they would start a family. He would enroll in manager training, and by the time their oldest was in preschool, he would be a company vice president.
By mid-fall, the mornings were chilly, and a mist rose in the hollows. With her sweater buttoned against the cold, Hannah pointed out the woolly caterpillars crawling along the preschool fence. “See their thick coats,” she said. “It’ll be a cold winter ahead.”
The school headmaster met her at the doorway, as she marched the children back inside. “Hannah.” The look on his face sent her stomach churning. “No,” she said.
The colonel waiting for her in the school office was polite and respectful, but she wanted him to cry with her. Will had been badly injured in an ambush in Falluja, and they didn’t expect him to live. He had been airlifted to a base in Cyprus, where he was undergoing surgery.
Will died the next day, on a bed thousands of miles from Hannah, with someone else holding his hand. At home, she sat in his usual easy chair. She caressed the armrests and pushed herself deep into the seat, trying to touch some elemental particle he might have left behind. All she felt was emptiness.
(R is for recluse, respectful, rhubarb, and risqué)
Holding the warped board aside, Marvin motioned Brian and Alex through the wooden fence. “Quiet,” he warned. “Old George has ears like an owl.”
With Marvin in the lead, the three boys crept, low to the ground, through the corn stalks, the rhubarb, and then the wooden trellises lush with grape vines and leaves. They kept to the back of the garden, which covered nearly every inch of the half-acre yard, and slid beneath a protective arbor of blackberry canes.
“Watch the stickers,” Marvin warned. He carried a slim backpack. Settling himself on the grass under the canes, he pulled several magazines out of the pack. The other two boys glanced around fearfully, as if expecting to see Old George peering down at them from above.
“We’re safe here,” Marvin said, grinning. “As long as we don’t make much noise.” He reached over his head for a fat, ripe blackberry and popped it into his mouth. Brian and Alex began pulling berries from the canes, and their hands and lips were soon stained blue-black from the juice.
“How did you find this place?” Alex said, finally sated. He wiped his hands on his legs, leaving streaks of color.
Marvin, too, had had his fill of berries. “Ted dared me to sneak in. I guess he figured I was too chicken to take on Old George. But the old man was clueless, so Ted had to pay up.” The matted grass and footprints told of Marvin’s numerous return trips.
“But Old George found you, didn’t he?” Brian inched farther back under the canes until he felt the stickers pressing through his T-shirt.
Marvin smirked. “Not here. He found me sneaking in. He didn’t know where I was headed ‘cause I’d just come through the fence.” He turned solemn, remembering the reprimand his father had given him when Old George brought him home, holding him tightly by the shirtsleeve. He had been forbidden from returning—and bothering “that recluse,” as his father called Old George. “He wants to be left alone. I expect you to be respectful.” The warning hadn’t stopped Marvin from coming back. He’d just been careful, waiting for the old man to hang up his hoe and straw hat, and shut the back door before daring to enter the yard.
“What’d you bring?” Alex said.
Marvin spread out the magazines on the ground, and the Alex whistled softly. Beyond risqué, the cover photos were raw and disturbing. “Where’d you get these?”
“From my uncle.” As the boys gaped at the pages, Marvin was excited by the images but troubled, too. The grownup women he knew were nothing like these women. Why did they pose like this? Why did his uncle want them?
The boys heard the back door slam. When the back porch squeaked, they scooped up the magazines and stuffed them hurriedly into Marvin’s pack. “Let’s go!” Marvin shoved Alex out of the cane canopy and quickly followed him into the sunshine. Brian’s shirt was caught in the stickers, and when he pulled to free himself, his shirt ripped. “Help,” he called. Marvin turned back, but Old George loomed up before him. With a grunt, Old George clapped a hand on his shoulder. His grip was strong, and his blue eyes fierce.
“Stealing my blackberries,” the old man thundered. “Trespassing in my garden.”
“No, no,” Marvin stammered. He was surprised to see that Brian was free of the canes, his shirt stretched and torn. Both he and Alex stood transfixed by Old George. “We didn’t take any blackberries.”
The old man’s eyes traveled the length of Alex’s stained legs.
Marvin opened up his pack. “No berries. Look.”
Still holding Marvin by the shoulder, Old George’s eyes widened at the magazines. He looked at the three boys, their faces tense and wary. What would he do?
“Come with me,” he ordered. They could have fled then, but they followed him obediently through the garden, up the steps to the porch, and inside the house. Despite the summer heat, he lit a fire in the fireplace, and burned the magazines, one by one. The pages glowed red, curled black, and wafted up the chimney.
Marvin was relieved. The magazines were history now—nothing for Old George to show his parents. “Are you going to tell my dad?”
Old George gave him an intent look. “We’ll see.” He motioned for the boys to follow him into the kitchen. Marvin was surprised to see the floor clean and bright, the counters uncluttered. Old George took three bowls from a cupboard and handed one to each boy. “The birds are eating all my berries. You help me pick them, and you can take home what I don’t want.”
Holding the warped board aside, Marvin motioned Brian and Alex through the wooden fence. “Quiet,” he warned. “Old George has ears like an owl.”
With Marvin in the lead, the three boys crept, low to the ground, through the corn stalks, the rhubarb, and then the wooden trellises lush with grape vines and leaves. They kept to the back of the garden, which covered nearly every inch of the half-acre yard, and slid beneath a protective arbor of blackberry canes.
“Watch the stickers,” Marvin warned. He carried a slim backpack. Settling himself on the grass under the canes, he pulled several magazines out of the pack. The other two boys glanced around fearfully, as if expecting to see Old George peering down at them from above.
“We’re safe here,” Marvin said, grinning. “As long as we don’t make much noise.” He reached over his head for a fat, ripe blackberry and popped it into his mouth. Brian and Alex began pulling berries from the canes, and their hands and lips were soon stained blue-black from the juice.
“How did you find this place?” Alex said, finally sated. He wiped his hands on his legs, leaving streaks of color.
Marvin, too, had had his fill of berries. “Ted dared me to sneak in. I guess he figured I was too chicken to take on Old George. But the old man was clueless, so Ted had to pay up.” The matted grass and footprints told of Marvin’s numerous return trips.
“But Old George found you, didn’t he?” Brian inched farther back under the canes until he felt the stickers pressing through his T-shirt.
Marvin smirked. “Not here. He found me sneaking in. He didn’t know where I was headed ‘cause I’d just come through the fence.” He turned solemn, remembering the reprimand his father had given him when Old George brought him home, holding him tightly by the shirtsleeve. He had been forbidden from returning—and bothering “that recluse,” as his father called Old George. “He wants to be left alone. I expect you to be respectful.” The warning hadn’t stopped Marvin from coming back. He’d just been careful, waiting for the old man to hang up his hoe and straw hat, and shut the back door before daring to enter the yard.
“What’d you bring?” Alex said.
Marvin spread out the magazines on the ground, and the Alex whistled softly. Beyond risqué, the cover photos were raw and disturbing. “Where’d you get these?”
“From my uncle.” As the boys gaped at the pages, Marvin was excited by the images but troubled, too. The grownup women he knew were nothing like these women. Why did they pose like this? Why did his uncle want them?
The boys heard the back door slam. When the back porch squeaked, they scooped up the magazines and stuffed them hurriedly into Marvin’s pack. “Let’s go!” Marvin shoved Alex out of the cane canopy and quickly followed him into the sunshine. Brian’s shirt was caught in the stickers, and when he pulled to free himself, his shirt ripped. “Help,” he called. Marvin turned back, but Old George loomed up before him. With a grunt, Old George clapped a hand on his shoulder. His grip was strong, and his blue eyes fierce.
“Stealing my blackberries,” the old man thundered. “Trespassing in my garden.”
“No, no,” Marvin stammered. He was surprised to see that Brian was free of the canes, his shirt stretched and torn. Both he and Alex stood transfixed by Old George. “We didn’t take any blackberries.”
The old man’s eyes traveled the length of Alex’s stained legs.
Marvin opened up his pack. “No berries. Look.”
Still holding Marvin by the shoulder, Old George’s eyes widened at the magazines. He looked at the three boys, their faces tense and wary. What would he do?
“Come with me,” he ordered. They could have fled then, but they followed him obediently through the garden, up the steps to the porch, and inside the house. Despite the summer heat, he lit a fire in the fireplace, and burned the magazines, one by one. The pages glowed red, curled black, and wafted up the chimney.
Marvin was relieved. The magazines were history now—nothing for Old George to show his parents. “Are you going to tell my dad?”
Old George gave him an intent look. “We’ll see.” He motioned for the boys to follow him into the kitchen. Marvin was surprised to see the floor clean and bright, the counters uncluttered. Old George took three bowls from a cupboard and handed one to each boy. “The birds are eating all my berries. You help me pick them, and you can take home what I don’t want.”
(Q is for quickly and quince)
From her earliest memories, Quinn knew she was different. Not like other people knew they were smarter or prettier. But somehow, she could see in a way no one else could. She figured out where her parents hid the Christmas presents because when she looked at the door of the locked bedroom closet, she could see right through it. She found her mother’s missing pearl earring because she spotted it in the sink trap. And she had her pick of prizes at the annual grange carnival because she always “guessed” the right number of items in the mystery box.
Her unique ability extended to people, as well. When she was eleven, she asked at dinner one night, “Papa, who is Alice?”
Her father blanched, coughed violently for a few moments, and excused himself from the table.
Moments before, when Quinn had looked at her father, an image of a blonde woman, slender and pretty, floated into her head. Alice, the image whispered. Alice, it turned out, was her father’s mistress.
Quinn quickly realized she should keep her special talent to herself. At best, it was intermittent, although with time and practice, she was able to depend on it more and more. She could call on it when she concentrated, but not always. If she was stressed out or emotionally upset, her vision would intensify, until the world around her was shimmering with hidden objects and unvoiced secrets.
“Migraine,” she said, as explanation for hiding out in her room until the crisis passed.
And then she met Sam. He was in her Psych class at Rowan College, and she liked his laid-back style and his eyes—one was blue and one was green. At least on the surface, his view of the world was also unique.
Quinn tried to shut her mind to Sam. She wanted to get to know him from the outside in, instead of immediately sensing his thoughts. Yet she remembered the easy unmasking of her father’s infidelity and she feared falling in love, because she didn’t want to get hurt. She didn’t want to know everything about Sam—but how could she stop herself?
To her surprise, her feelings overrode anything she might have picked up from him. It was as though her love was a rose-colored lens, filtering out any negative thoughts Sam might have had. By her senior year in college, they had been together for three years. They celebrated by going to the summer carnival. He wanted to ride the ferris wheel, and she planned to impress him by winning a few midway games.
At nine-thirty that night, lugging a stuffed panda bear, a quince pie, and a bag full of caramel corn, they called it a day. Quinn was happy. She kept the strangers’ thoughts that swirled around her at a subdued roar and let a pleasant tiredness take over. It had been a wonderful afternoon. Gradually, though, she sensed a jarring, repetitive mantra.
“Take someone out. Take someone out. Take someone out.”
A young man brushed against her shoulder, and she knew. “Sam, we’ve got to find security.”
The man turned suddenly, pulled out a handgun, and fired into the air. Dropping the stuffed bear, Sam lunged for the man. Quinn screamed, and the crowd around them scattered. A second shot fired, and Quinn sensed a sharp ripple of pain. Was it mental or physical? Sam wrestled the man to the ground, disarming him by pinning his gun arm behind his back. Quinn’s vision turned red and shimmery, then opaque.
“Someone help her,” Sam shouted.
In a swoon, she fell into a stranger’s arms. Feelings of horror and concern washed over her —Don’t let her die.
He’s praying, she thought. He’s praying for me.
From her earliest memories, Quinn knew she was different. Not like other people knew they were smarter or prettier. But somehow, she could see in a way no one else could. She figured out where her parents hid the Christmas presents because when she looked at the door of the locked bedroom closet, she could see right through it. She found her mother’s missing pearl earring because she spotted it in the sink trap. And she had her pick of prizes at the annual grange carnival because she always “guessed” the right number of items in the mystery box.
Her unique ability extended to people, as well. When she was eleven, she asked at dinner one night, “Papa, who is Alice?”
Her father blanched, coughed violently for a few moments, and excused himself from the table.
Moments before, when Quinn had looked at her father, an image of a blonde woman, slender and pretty, floated into her head. Alice, the image whispered. Alice, it turned out, was her father’s mistress.
Quinn quickly realized she should keep her special talent to herself. At best, it was intermittent, although with time and practice, she was able to depend on it more and more. She could call on it when she concentrated, but not always. If she was stressed out or emotionally upset, her vision would intensify, until the world around her was shimmering with hidden objects and unvoiced secrets.
“Migraine,” she said, as explanation for hiding out in her room until the crisis passed.
And then she met Sam. He was in her Psych class at Rowan College, and she liked his laid-back style and his eyes—one was blue and one was green. At least on the surface, his view of the world was also unique.
Quinn tried to shut her mind to Sam. She wanted to get to know him from the outside in, instead of immediately sensing his thoughts. Yet she remembered the easy unmasking of her father’s infidelity and she feared falling in love, because she didn’t want to get hurt. She didn’t want to know everything about Sam—but how could she stop herself?
To her surprise, her feelings overrode anything she might have picked up from him. It was as though her love was a rose-colored lens, filtering out any negative thoughts Sam might have had. By her senior year in college, they had been together for three years. They celebrated by going to the summer carnival. He wanted to ride the ferris wheel, and she planned to impress him by winning a few midway games.
At nine-thirty that night, lugging a stuffed panda bear, a quince pie, and a bag full of caramel corn, they called it a day. Quinn was happy. She kept the strangers’ thoughts that swirled around her at a subdued roar and let a pleasant tiredness take over. It had been a wonderful afternoon. Gradually, though, she sensed a jarring, repetitive mantra.
“Take someone out. Take someone out. Take someone out.”
A young man brushed against her shoulder, and she knew. “Sam, we’ve got to find security.”
The man turned suddenly, pulled out a handgun, and fired into the air. Dropping the stuffed bear, Sam lunged for the man. Quinn screamed, and the crowd around them scattered. A second shot fired, and Quinn sensed a sharp ripple of pain. Was it mental or physical? Sam wrestled the man to the ground, disarming him by pinning his gun arm behind his back. Quinn’s vision turned red and shimmery, then opaque.
“Someone help her,” Sam shouted.
In a swoon, she fell into a stranger’s arms. Feelings of horror and concern washed over her —Don’t let her die.
He’s praying, she thought. He’s praying for me.
(P is for preening, pretentious, and precious)
Joe cradled the cockatiel in his hands, then extended one of the bird’s wings to trim the flight feathers. His flock of birds now numbered eight, and one pair had three eggs incubating. The birds shrieked and twittered around him as the morning sun though the skylights lit up the aviary.
“Easy there,” he said softly, gently turning the bird and trimming the other wing. The bird’s mate was preening on a nearby branch.
After releasing the cockatiel, he surveyed the aviary. Carey was coming by in twenty minutes, expecting a tour. Would she like it? It was important to him that she understand his passion. These birds were precious to him—they kept him sane. He walked with effort to the doorway and looked back one more time.
He had met Carey a month ago, when she sat next to him at a township meeting. He had come to make a statement about the pending municipal budget. She was there to see her friend’s grandson get a community award. They got to talking and discovered that they had both lost spouses. They both read voraciously, he about the Civil War and she about women’s history. And she loved birds. Joe had vowed to himself that no one would ever replaced Amelia, but he was drawn to Carey’s joie de vivre. She wasn’t pretentious, and she seemed genuinely interested in him.
Joe’s arthritic hip wouldn’t let him go bird-watching with her, but she said she was intrigued by his cockatiels.
But now he was nervous. Twice he checked his reflection in the hall mirror, smoothing his thinning hair. When he saw her drive up, he felt as he had all those years ago, when he and Amelia were on their first date. Could love happen twice in one life?
“Joe, you look pale. Are feeling alright?” Carey wore a peach scoop-necked shirt and tan capris. She looked lovely.
“I’m fine, fine.” He ushered her in the door and accepted her gift of freshly baked bread.
“I thought we might have a slice or two after we look at the birds.” She looked around at the modest living room, and Joe was pleased to see her nod in approval.
The aviary was at the back of the house, in a room that had once been the den. He had built a screened foyer that allowed him to look into the aviary before entering it. Most guests got only that far—a chance to see the birds but not handle them. Joe took Carey into the room itself. When a bird landed on his shoulder, he transferred it to her hand. He pointed out the markings that made cockatiels unique. He told her about building his flock after Amelia’s death. He showed her the nest with the three perfect eggs.
“Would you like one of the hatchlings?”
Carey shook her head. “Thank you, Joe, but I think the baby birds belong here, with your flock.” She seemed to sense his disappointment. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the offer.” Her eyes twinkled. “In fact, I will take one of the hatchlings—as long as it stays in the aviary. That will give me an excuse to come here as often as you’ll have me.”
Joe cradled the cockatiel in his hands, then extended one of the bird’s wings to trim the flight feathers. His flock of birds now numbered eight, and one pair had three eggs incubating. The birds shrieked and twittered around him as the morning sun though the skylights lit up the aviary.
“Easy there,” he said softly, gently turning the bird and trimming the other wing. The bird’s mate was preening on a nearby branch.
After releasing the cockatiel, he surveyed the aviary. Carey was coming by in twenty minutes, expecting a tour. Would she like it? It was important to him that she understand his passion. These birds were precious to him—they kept him sane. He walked with effort to the doorway and looked back one more time.
He had met Carey a month ago, when she sat next to him at a township meeting. He had come to make a statement about the pending municipal budget. She was there to see her friend’s grandson get a community award. They got to talking and discovered that they had both lost spouses. They both read voraciously, he about the Civil War and she about women’s history. And she loved birds. Joe had vowed to himself that no one would ever replaced Amelia, but he was drawn to Carey’s joie de vivre. She wasn’t pretentious, and she seemed genuinely interested in him.
Joe’s arthritic hip wouldn’t let him go bird-watching with her, but she said she was intrigued by his cockatiels.
But now he was nervous. Twice he checked his reflection in the hall mirror, smoothing his thinning hair. When he saw her drive up, he felt as he had all those years ago, when he and Amelia were on their first date. Could love happen twice in one life?
“Joe, you look pale. Are feeling alright?” Carey wore a peach scoop-necked shirt and tan capris. She looked lovely.
“I’m fine, fine.” He ushered her in the door and accepted her gift of freshly baked bread.
“I thought we might have a slice or two after we look at the birds.” She looked around at the modest living room, and Joe was pleased to see her nod in approval.
The aviary was at the back of the house, in a room that had once been the den. He had built a screened foyer that allowed him to look into the aviary before entering it. Most guests got only that far—a chance to see the birds but not handle them. Joe took Carey into the room itself. When a bird landed on his shoulder, he transferred it to her hand. He pointed out the markings that made cockatiels unique. He told her about building his flock after Amelia’s death. He showed her the nest with the three perfect eggs.
“Would you like one of the hatchlings?”
Carey shook her head. “Thank you, Joe, but I think the baby birds belong here, with your flock.” She seemed to sense his disappointment. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the offer.” Her eyes twinkled. “In fact, I will take one of the hatchlings—as long as it stays in the aviary. That will give me an excuse to come here as often as you’ll have me.”
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
(O is for octagonal)
From the outside, the two-story twin was no different from its other half – the wrought-iron porch railing, the neatly painted trim, a cheery pot of geraniums on the step – but inside, the mood was somber. Detective Mike O’Neill sighed and shook his head. Another senseless death, another young man who might have been saved if he’d only reach out for help. The coroner confirmed what he already knew – suicide. A neighbor, an older man who lived next door, had called police at two-fifteen a.m. to report hearing a single gunshot.
“Any note?” the coroner asked. He finished examining the body – Hugh Palmer, according to his driver’s license – as it lay, slumped over a desk, the wood stained with blood, a handgun on the floor. He nodded to his assistant to move the body onto the gurney and out of the house.
Mike sighed again. “Not that we can find. They don’t always leave one.” He and his partner had carefully searched the house, but turned up nothing except the odd fact that most of the rooms had at least one mirror and that all of the mirrors were covered with black fabric.
The body had been gone only a few minutes when a young woman shoved open the front door. Mike and Tom, his partner, were making one more sweep of the house to look for a suicide note.
“Where is he?” The woman was crying, her mascara streaked down her face.
Mike broke off his search and took out his badge. “Police, miss.” He blocked her way. “We’re conducting an investigation. And you are–?”
She dug in her handbag for a tissue and wiped her nose. “Renee Palmer. Where’s Hugh?” She grew agitated again and tried to slip past Mike.
He gently guided her to a chair off the foyer. “Please sit, Miss Palmer. Hugh Palmer is related to you?”
“He’s my brother,” she sobbed. “He called me last night, late. He was distraught. He said he had a gun. I begged him—“ She stopped, unable for a few moments to go on.
“Your brother threatened to harm himself?” Mike took notes.
“I told him to stop talking nonsense. I told him I loved him. But he goes through these spells when life seems unbearable.”
“Did you call anyone after you spoke with him?” Mike said. “The police? 911?”
The young woman covered her face with her hands. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Tom came in the room then, and held out a small, folded paper to Mike. “This might be it. I found it in the mirror, the octagonal mirror, in the bedroom.”
Mike unfolded the paper. It was a half sheet, with an inked scrawl in two short lines. The lines ran on a downward arc, as though the writer had been in a hurry.
Renee Palmer jerked the paper from Mike’s fingers. “From Hugh?” She studied the paper, then held it to her cheek, in a caress, moaning in grief.
Tom caught Mike’s eye and raised his eyebrow in a silent question.
“The words to a song,” Mike shrugged.
Just walk away, Renee,
You're not to blame.
From the outside, the two-story twin was no different from its other half – the wrought-iron porch railing, the neatly painted trim, a cheery pot of geraniums on the step – but inside, the mood was somber. Detective Mike O’Neill sighed and shook his head. Another senseless death, another young man who might have been saved if he’d only reach out for help. The coroner confirmed what he already knew – suicide. A neighbor, an older man who lived next door, had called police at two-fifteen a.m. to report hearing a single gunshot.
“Any note?” the coroner asked. He finished examining the body – Hugh Palmer, according to his driver’s license – as it lay, slumped over a desk, the wood stained with blood, a handgun on the floor. He nodded to his assistant to move the body onto the gurney and out of the house.
Mike sighed again. “Not that we can find. They don’t always leave one.” He and his partner had carefully searched the house, but turned up nothing except the odd fact that most of the rooms had at least one mirror and that all of the mirrors were covered with black fabric.
The body had been gone only a few minutes when a young woman shoved open the front door. Mike and Tom, his partner, were making one more sweep of the house to look for a suicide note.
“Where is he?” The woman was crying, her mascara streaked down her face.
Mike broke off his search and took out his badge. “Police, miss.” He blocked her way. “We’re conducting an investigation. And you are–?”
She dug in her handbag for a tissue and wiped her nose. “Renee Palmer. Where’s Hugh?” She grew agitated again and tried to slip past Mike.
He gently guided her to a chair off the foyer. “Please sit, Miss Palmer. Hugh Palmer is related to you?”
“He’s my brother,” she sobbed. “He called me last night, late. He was distraught. He said he had a gun. I begged him—“ She stopped, unable for a few moments to go on.
“Your brother threatened to harm himself?” Mike took notes.
“I told him to stop talking nonsense. I told him I loved him. But he goes through these spells when life seems unbearable.”
“Did you call anyone after you spoke with him?” Mike said. “The police? 911?”
The young woman covered her face with her hands. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Tom came in the room then, and held out a small, folded paper to Mike. “This might be it. I found it in the mirror, the octagonal mirror, in the bedroom.”
Mike unfolded the paper. It was a half sheet, with an inked scrawl in two short lines. The lines ran on a downward arc, as though the writer had been in a hurry.
Renee Palmer jerked the paper from Mike’s fingers. “From Hugh?” She studied the paper, then held it to her cheek, in a caress, moaning in grief.
Tom caught Mike’s eye and raised his eyebrow in a silent question.
“The words to a song,” Mike shrugged.
Just walk away, Renee,
You're not to blame.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Winged victory
(N is for nervous and noxious)
The ants swarmed on the bedroom carpet, a churning black mass that spread toward the picture window. Those with wings flew a few feet, then dropped onto the comforter and pillows.
“Oh my god,” Ned’s wife shrieked. “Do something about them.” She batted the flying ants away from her face and fled the room, still in her pajamas.
Ned hated spring because it brought the annual influx of carpenter ants – and his wife’s insistence that he get rid of them. He guessed that the swarm had reached capacity in some hidden area of the house, having feasted on the joists that held up the floors, and now were heading for fresh forests to fell. Uneasily, he wondered if one morning, as he rolled out of bed, the entire upper story might collapse from the invisible damage the ants had wrought.
After breakfast that Saturday, Ned vacuumed up all the ants he could see, even sucking some out of midair. It was a satisfying feeling. Then he drove to the hardware store and bought a pump sprayer and a general-purpose insecticide. The hardware clerk tried to sell him dusting powder, arguing that it was safer, but Ned figured whatever spray he didn’t use on the ants, he could aim at the garden slugs and paper wasps that built nests under the eaves.
“Dad, can I watch?” Ned’s son, Anthony, tagged along behind Ned as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom, armed with the sprayer.
Ned set the sprayer down in the bedroom doorway. “Go play outside with your sister. This stuff is bad for you.”
“But I wanna see ‘em die,” the boy whined.
Ned was firm, and Anthony stomped down the steps. The day was cool, with a fresh breeze, so Ned opened the bedroom windows wide to vent any noxious vapors from the bug spray. Despite the draft, he was sweating slightly. He was nervous, but not sure why – these were ants, not tarantulas.
With the sprayer tank in his left hand and the nozzle in his right, he worked his way around the baseboard, evenly coating the wood. He wasn’t sure where the ants were coming from, but they had first appeared on the floor. After making a complete circuit of the room, he paused to decide what else to spray. The scent of the insecticide was mildly sweet. Two ants crawled out of an electrical outlet, made their way down the wall to the baseboard, frantically waved their antennae and fell to the floor.
“Gotcha,” Ned said, pleased with his work. “Let me just take care of any of your buddies hiding in there.” He knelt down to better aim the nozzle into the outlet. His wife found him later, when she went to find out why the breaker had blown. He was stretched out on the carpet, dead.
The ants swarmed on the bedroom carpet, a churning black mass that spread toward the picture window. Those with wings flew a few feet, then dropped onto the comforter and pillows.
“Oh my god,” Ned’s wife shrieked. “Do something about them.” She batted the flying ants away from her face and fled the room, still in her pajamas.
Ned hated spring because it brought the annual influx of carpenter ants – and his wife’s insistence that he get rid of them. He guessed that the swarm had reached capacity in some hidden area of the house, having feasted on the joists that held up the floors, and now were heading for fresh forests to fell. Uneasily, he wondered if one morning, as he rolled out of bed, the entire upper story might collapse from the invisible damage the ants had wrought.
After breakfast that Saturday, Ned vacuumed up all the ants he could see, even sucking some out of midair. It was a satisfying feeling. Then he drove to the hardware store and bought a pump sprayer and a general-purpose insecticide. The hardware clerk tried to sell him dusting powder, arguing that it was safer, but Ned figured whatever spray he didn’t use on the ants, he could aim at the garden slugs and paper wasps that built nests under the eaves.
“Dad, can I watch?” Ned’s son, Anthony, tagged along behind Ned as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom, armed with the sprayer.
Ned set the sprayer down in the bedroom doorway. “Go play outside with your sister. This stuff is bad for you.”
“But I wanna see ‘em die,” the boy whined.
Ned was firm, and Anthony stomped down the steps. The day was cool, with a fresh breeze, so Ned opened the bedroom windows wide to vent any noxious vapors from the bug spray. Despite the draft, he was sweating slightly. He was nervous, but not sure why – these were ants, not tarantulas.
With the sprayer tank in his left hand and the nozzle in his right, he worked his way around the baseboard, evenly coating the wood. He wasn’t sure where the ants were coming from, but they had first appeared on the floor. After making a complete circuit of the room, he paused to decide what else to spray. The scent of the insecticide was mildly sweet. Two ants crawled out of an electrical outlet, made their way down the wall to the baseboard, frantically waved their antennae and fell to the floor.
“Gotcha,” Ned said, pleased with his work. “Let me just take care of any of your buddies hiding in there.” He knelt down to better aim the nozzle into the outlet. His wife found him later, when she went to find out why the breaker had blown. He was stretched out on the carpet, dead.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
(M is for magic, maniacal, and muskrat )
Breathing deeply and slowly, Zib began to prepare for the long swim ahead of him. He needed to pass from the Great Marsh unnoticed into the royal canal and then beneath the Grand Lodge, a distance of at least a quarter mile. Twenty minutes under the surface, without a breath. He had stayed under that long easily when romping with his siblings, but this time, the fate of the rebels lay in his remarkable ability.
“Remember to come up quietly, don’t gasp, or you’ll alert the guards,” Max told him. Besides the rebel leader, at least a dozen other muskrats crowded around Zib, eager to see him off.
“I know, I’ll be careful.” Zib continued to breathe in a steady rhythm. Dusk had fallen and the spring night was coming on quickly. He felt in his pouch for the owl feather, and touching it, immediately relaxed. Although he was skeptical as to the feather’s magic potency, it wouldn’t hurt to have it with him, a talisman against the unknown.
Last night, near the end of a two-day secret meeting to organize the planned coup, his father had finally acknowledged the danger and wished him luck. “Someone or something has got to stop Ondatra,” his father said. “He’s maniacal. We have only suffered under his reign.”
The rebels had chosen Zib to begin the campaign. He would enter the king’s compound, wait for Ondatra to retire to his bedchamber and strangle him. Ondatra’s son, Prince Wallace, favored the rebels, they had been told, and might not retaliate. Then again, it might be a suicide mission.
Max took Zib aside after the meeting to give him the wing feather of the great horned owl. It had provided protection for several generations in the Great Marsh, and now would bestow on the young muskrat a way to slip into the Grand Lodge scentless, a kind of invisibility that would give him extra minutes to hide.
“The future of this kingdom rests with you, Zib.” Max was solemn, but a smile played across his face. “You’ll do fine. We’ll be waiting for the signal.”
With one last, deep gulp of fresh air, Zib slid off the bank and into the Marsh.
Breathing deeply and slowly, Zib began to prepare for the long swim ahead of him. He needed to pass from the Great Marsh unnoticed into the royal canal and then beneath the Grand Lodge, a distance of at least a quarter mile. Twenty minutes under the surface, without a breath. He had stayed under that long easily when romping with his siblings, but this time, the fate of the rebels lay in his remarkable ability.
“Remember to come up quietly, don’t gasp, or you’ll alert the guards,” Max told him. Besides the rebel leader, at least a dozen other muskrats crowded around Zib, eager to see him off.
“I know, I’ll be careful.” Zib continued to breathe in a steady rhythm. Dusk had fallen and the spring night was coming on quickly. He felt in his pouch for the owl feather, and touching it, immediately relaxed. Although he was skeptical as to the feather’s magic potency, it wouldn’t hurt to have it with him, a talisman against the unknown.
Last night, near the end of a two-day secret meeting to organize the planned coup, his father had finally acknowledged the danger and wished him luck. “Someone or something has got to stop Ondatra,” his father said. “He’s maniacal. We have only suffered under his reign.”
The rebels had chosen Zib to begin the campaign. He would enter the king’s compound, wait for Ondatra to retire to his bedchamber and strangle him. Ondatra’s son, Prince Wallace, favored the rebels, they had been told, and might not retaliate. Then again, it might be a suicide mission.
Max took Zib aside after the meeting to give him the wing feather of the great horned owl. It had provided protection for several generations in the Great Marsh, and now would bestow on the young muskrat a way to slip into the Grand Lodge scentless, a kind of invisibility that would give him extra minutes to hide.
“The future of this kingdom rests with you, Zib.” Max was solemn, but a smile played across his face. “You’ll do fine. We’ll be waiting for the signal.”
With one last, deep gulp of fresh air, Zib slid off the bank and into the Marsh.
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Wait
(L is for luminous, limousine, and lucky)
Every night after work, Beverly Green sat on her balcony, waiting for her son to call. She watched the limousines passing beneath her on Pine Street, as they came and went to the nightclub around the corner. She resisted the urge to call him, because the three-hour time difference between Philadelphia and Los Angeles usually meant he was still at school, finishing up his paperwork, and couldn’t be bothered. And so she waited. Two weeks earlier, he had confided that he was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him, and Beverly began to worry. “This is what I feared when he moved to California,” she told her therapist. “I lost my husband and now I’m losing my son.” Her therapist reminded her that her husband had moved out and that her son was only an airplane ride away. But she knew family ties could loosen as the miles between people grew. “He’ll marry and I won’t be welcome anymore,” she said, certain in her prediction and already planning how to lure him back east.
On Thursday evening, when Beverly was on the verge of chucking the phone into the street below, he called. He had taken his time bringing up the subject to his girlfriend, Charlotte, who had warned him she didn’t like deep discussions of any kind. After ten minutes of rambling, he told Beverly what she wanted to hear. “She said no, even when I begged her.” He sounded perplexed and sad. “I thought she loved me.”
Beverly smiled, feeling a sense of victory over this unknown Charlotte. It’s not your fault, Beverly told him. Think of how lucky you are to have a place to come home to, a place where you can nurse your wounds and recover. “By the way,” she added. “Nancy’s back in town. You know, she never stopped loving you, even while she was married to that guy from South Jersey.” When her son didn’t respond, Beverly offered more details about Nancy and her painful divorce and her new condo, near the Art Museum. “So, when are you coming back?” She would get his old bedroom repainted and order new drapes, then invite Nancy to dinner as a welcome home surprise.
He broke into her plans. “Why would I move back?” he said. His job was in California, and Beverly understood then that she was the only one who assumed the journey out west was temporary. He had new friends now, and he was making new memories that didn’t have to include her. Deflated and disappointed – more with herself than with her son – Beverly let the minutes slip by on the balcony, as the full moon hung, luminous, over a cityscape sprinkled generously with light. Then she called Nancy. She could still invite her to dinner.
Every night after work, Beverly Green sat on her balcony, waiting for her son to call. She watched the limousines passing beneath her on Pine Street, as they came and went to the nightclub around the corner. She resisted the urge to call him, because the three-hour time difference between Philadelphia and Los Angeles usually meant he was still at school, finishing up his paperwork, and couldn’t be bothered. And so she waited. Two weeks earlier, he had confided that he was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him, and Beverly began to worry. “This is what I feared when he moved to California,” she told her therapist. “I lost my husband and now I’m losing my son.” Her therapist reminded her that her husband had moved out and that her son was only an airplane ride away. But she knew family ties could loosen as the miles between people grew. “He’ll marry and I won’t be welcome anymore,” she said, certain in her prediction and already planning how to lure him back east.
On Thursday evening, when Beverly was on the verge of chucking the phone into the street below, he called. He had taken his time bringing up the subject to his girlfriend, Charlotte, who had warned him she didn’t like deep discussions of any kind. After ten minutes of rambling, he told Beverly what she wanted to hear. “She said no, even when I begged her.” He sounded perplexed and sad. “I thought she loved me.”
Beverly smiled, feeling a sense of victory over this unknown Charlotte. It’s not your fault, Beverly told him. Think of how lucky you are to have a place to come home to, a place where you can nurse your wounds and recover. “By the way,” she added. “Nancy’s back in town. You know, she never stopped loving you, even while she was married to that guy from South Jersey.” When her son didn’t respond, Beverly offered more details about Nancy and her painful divorce and her new condo, near the Art Museum. “So, when are you coming back?” She would get his old bedroom repainted and order new drapes, then invite Nancy to dinner as a welcome home surprise.
He broke into her plans. “Why would I move back?” he said. His job was in California, and Beverly understood then that she was the only one who assumed the journey out west was temporary. He had new friends now, and he was making new memories that didn’t have to include her. Deflated and disappointed – more with herself than with her son – Beverly let the minutes slip by on the balcony, as the full moon hung, luminous, over a cityscape sprinkled generously with light. Then she called Nancy. She could still invite her to dinner.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
(K is for kleptomaniac, kaleidoscope, kindred, knucklehead, kite, and kitten)
“I’m going to read a list of words, one by one, and after each one, I want you to respond with the first word that comes to mind. If I said, ‘kitten,’ for instance, you might say, ‘cute.’”
Zoe Walker nodded, but she was baffled. Her job interview had gone well. Peter Klarke, the founder of Klarke & Co., had told her he was impressed with the list of clients she’d snagged running her own PR business. She was confident that he would hire her – she was a good fit for the prestigious marketing firm, and she really wanted the position. She wanted the chance to play in the big leagues, to have a posh private office and a hefty expense account. But now she was sitting in HR, where, she was told, she had to pass a personality test before she could complete the job application process. Kind of kooky, she thought, but if it sealed the position for her...
“Kaleidoscope.”
Zoe didn’t hesitate. “Colors, prisms, swirls, beauty.”
Mr. James, the HR associate, frowned. “Only one word, Ms. Walker. Just the first one that pops into your head.”
“Sorry.” This was weird. Why should it matter how many words she came up with? She was in marketing, and brainstorming ideas was second-nature. Zoe tried a disarming smile, but Mr. James was studying her file folder.
“Kindred.”
“Family.”
“Knucklehead.”
“Why do these all start with K?” Zoe glanced over her shoulder, sure that Peter Klarke would pop in the door to tell her this was all a joke.
“Ms. Walker, shall we stop the test? Perhaps Mr. Klarke was too hasty in sending you to HR--”
“No, no. Please continue.” She kept her tone neutral, but inwardly defiant, she stared at the name plate on his desk. “James,” she said.
“Beg your pardon?”
“James – that’s my answer. James is the first thing that popped into my mind.”
“For ... knucklehead?” He seemed puzzled, then her answer registered and his eyes narrowed. He made several notes in Zoe’s folder. “Kite,” he said softly, distinctly.
“Tree.”
“Kitten.”
“Sneeze.”
“Kleptomaniac.”
Zoe laughed. “I’ve changed my mind about the job.” She picked up her portfolio. Her home office beckoned, even if it was tiny and she had to juggle being boss, secretary and sales staff. “I don’t think I’m crazy enough for you.”
“I’m going to read a list of words, one by one, and after each one, I want you to respond with the first word that comes to mind. If I said, ‘kitten,’ for instance, you might say, ‘cute.’”
Zoe Walker nodded, but she was baffled. Her job interview had gone well. Peter Klarke, the founder of Klarke & Co., had told her he was impressed with the list of clients she’d snagged running her own PR business. She was confident that he would hire her – she was a good fit for the prestigious marketing firm, and she really wanted the position. She wanted the chance to play in the big leagues, to have a posh private office and a hefty expense account. But now she was sitting in HR, where, she was told, she had to pass a personality test before she could complete the job application process. Kind of kooky, she thought, but if it sealed the position for her...
“Kaleidoscope.”
Zoe didn’t hesitate. “Colors, prisms, swirls, beauty.”
Mr. James, the HR associate, frowned. “Only one word, Ms. Walker. Just the first one that pops into your head.”
“Sorry.” This was weird. Why should it matter how many words she came up with? She was in marketing, and brainstorming ideas was second-nature. Zoe tried a disarming smile, but Mr. James was studying her file folder.
“Kindred.”
“Family.”
“Knucklehead.”
“Why do these all start with K?” Zoe glanced over her shoulder, sure that Peter Klarke would pop in the door to tell her this was all a joke.
“Ms. Walker, shall we stop the test? Perhaps Mr. Klarke was too hasty in sending you to HR--”
“No, no. Please continue.” She kept her tone neutral, but inwardly defiant, she stared at the name plate on his desk. “James,” she said.
“Beg your pardon?”
“James – that’s my answer. James is the first thing that popped into my mind.”
“For ... knucklehead?” He seemed puzzled, then her answer registered and his eyes narrowed. He made several notes in Zoe’s folder. “Kite,” he said softly, distinctly.
“Tree.”
“Kitten.”
“Sneeze.”
“Kleptomaniac.”
Zoe laughed. “I’ve changed my mind about the job.” She picked up her portfolio. Her home office beckoned, even if it was tiny and she had to juggle being boss, secretary and sales staff. “I don’t think I’m crazy enough for you.”
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Grounded
(J is for jowly, jasmine, and jiffy) – 439 words
Rena Todd checked her watch and pulled the strap of her carry-on bag higher onto her shoulder. Any minute now, the gate attendant would signal that she was on the next flight. She yawned. Her body ached from spending the night stretched out on an airport bench, her makeshift bed after the flight out of Salt Lake City was canceled because of a surprise snowfall.
“Excuse me, please.” A jowly woman pushed her way in front of Rena and planted herself at the counter. “I was told you have an extra seat on the nine-fifty to Denver.”
Exasperated, Rena quickly moved up beside the woman. “Look, I’ve been waiting standby all night for that flight. I’ve been stranded here since six o’clock yesterday. They told me there was one empty seat, and it’s mine.”
The woman frowned and shook her head. “No, no. They said they would plug in my name for that seat. I need to get home.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her chunky necklace and bracelets seemed to weigh her down.
The young man behind the counter nodded affably, calmly. “Ladies, let’s all take a deep breath and relax, and let me see where we stand. I’ll have the answer in a jiffy.” He studied his monitor, typing quickly.
Rena, on another day, would have walked away without a fight, but fifteen hours trapped at the airport and too much Starbucks coffee had left her cranky and mulish. “I don’t care where we ‘stand,’” she said. “You promised me that seat, and I’m holding you to it.”
He sighed, still looking at his screen. “The news isn’t good. We have exactly one empty seat on that flight. And on the twelve-fifty, only one. If you want to wait for the five-fifty tonight, I can guarantee you both a seat.”
“Jasmine, Jasmine Peabody is my name,” Rena’s seat rival said. “Please put me on this next flight.” She grabbed at Rena’s hand. “You’re a young thing. Let an old lady have first dibs.”
Rena shook her off. “You’re not so old,” she said. “And I’m not so young.”
With a flourish, the attendant held up a quarter. “Coin toss,” he said. “Heads for you, Miss Peabody; tails for you, Miss Todd.” He pitched the quarter up in the air, caught it, and slapped it on the counter. “Tails.” He paused. “It’s settled then. Miss Todd is on the flight.”
Jasmine sagged against the counter for a moment, then straightened up and turned away, avoiding Rena’s eye.
“Wait.” Rena reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder. The victory, the one she had wanted so badly, now seemed trivial.
Rena Todd checked her watch and pulled the strap of her carry-on bag higher onto her shoulder. Any minute now, the gate attendant would signal that she was on the next flight. She yawned. Her body ached from spending the night stretched out on an airport bench, her makeshift bed after the flight out of Salt Lake City was canceled because of a surprise snowfall.
“Excuse me, please.” A jowly woman pushed her way in front of Rena and planted herself at the counter. “I was told you have an extra seat on the nine-fifty to Denver.”
Exasperated, Rena quickly moved up beside the woman. “Look, I’ve been waiting standby all night for that flight. I’ve been stranded here since six o’clock yesterday. They told me there was one empty seat, and it’s mine.”
The woman frowned and shook her head. “No, no. They said they would plug in my name for that seat. I need to get home.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her chunky necklace and bracelets seemed to weigh her down.
The young man behind the counter nodded affably, calmly. “Ladies, let’s all take a deep breath and relax, and let me see where we stand. I’ll have the answer in a jiffy.” He studied his monitor, typing quickly.
Rena, on another day, would have walked away without a fight, but fifteen hours trapped at the airport and too much Starbucks coffee had left her cranky and mulish. “I don’t care where we ‘stand,’” she said. “You promised me that seat, and I’m holding you to it.”
He sighed, still looking at his screen. “The news isn’t good. We have exactly one empty seat on that flight. And on the twelve-fifty, only one. If you want to wait for the five-fifty tonight, I can guarantee you both a seat.”
“Jasmine, Jasmine Peabody is my name,” Rena’s seat rival said. “Please put me on this next flight.” She grabbed at Rena’s hand. “You’re a young thing. Let an old lady have first dibs.”
Rena shook her off. “You’re not so old,” she said. “And I’m not so young.”
With a flourish, the attendant held up a quarter. “Coin toss,” he said. “Heads for you, Miss Peabody; tails for you, Miss Todd.” He pitched the quarter up in the air, caught it, and slapped it on the counter. “Tails.” He paused. “It’s settled then. Miss Todd is on the flight.”
Jasmine sagged against the counter for a moment, then straightened up and turned away, avoiding Rena’s eye.
“Wait.” Rena reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder. The victory, the one she had wanted so badly, now seemed trivial.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Where There's a Will
(I for iridescent, irony, and intestate)
Jack looks great in his fancy suit, pinstripes and all. The crisp white shirt, the blood-red tie, the pearl lapel pin iridescent in the flickering candlelight. And his face, so serene. “Jack,” I whisper, reaching out to touch his coat sleeve, the smooth wool sliding beneath my fingers, “you look great.”
Kay yanks my arm back, out of the coffin. “How dare you touch him.”
I’m not surprised by Kay’s anger. Jack and I were married for nine tumultuous years, until I’d had enough and left. Neither Kay, nor his other two sisters, forgave me for that decision. In their eyes, and in an opinion shared by Jack, I abandoned him when he was most vulnerable. I smile sweetly at Kay and go sit next to Damon, Jack’s poker buddy.
“She’s a bitch, you know,” Damon says. He fiddles with his shirt cuffs and seems uncomfortable in his blue suit, pulled tight across his belly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Damon this dressed up, except for Jack’s and my wedding, when he got so warm standing on the sunny lawn at my parents’ house that he passed out.
I speak softly, so only Damon can hear. “Kay thinks I’m here to grab Jack’s money.”
Damon stops pulling on his cuffs. “What money?”
“That’s the irony of the whole thing - Jack decked out so fancy, the family ready to drop-kick me out the door. He had zilch when I was married to him and he has zilch now.”
“Maybe he socked away some dough nobody knows about.” Damon sounds hopeful, as though he’s bought a lottery ticket with some long-shot numbers.
“No,” I say. “Money wasn’t Jack’s strong point. You should know – all those chits he owed on cards.” He had other assets that made up for the lack of finances, and I savored them, naively hoping that he would change, that I could change him.
Kay is beside me again, her lips compressed in a thin line. “I think you should know that Jack died intestate, and that means everything goes to probate.” She smirks slightly. “Even if he had a will, he didn’t leave you anything. Nothing.”
I try to phrase an appropriate comeback. “It’s not about money,” I start, but Damon jumps in before I can finish. “Bet he didn’t leave you nothing either.” He winks at me. “You were just his sister. Jess was his wife and I was his friend. We have memories of Jack that don’t need a probate judge to tell us they’re ours.”
Jack looks great in his fancy suit, pinstripes and all. The crisp white shirt, the blood-red tie, the pearl lapel pin iridescent in the flickering candlelight. And his face, so serene. “Jack,” I whisper, reaching out to touch his coat sleeve, the smooth wool sliding beneath my fingers, “you look great.”
Kay yanks my arm back, out of the coffin. “How dare you touch him.”
I’m not surprised by Kay’s anger. Jack and I were married for nine tumultuous years, until I’d had enough and left. Neither Kay, nor his other two sisters, forgave me for that decision. In their eyes, and in an opinion shared by Jack, I abandoned him when he was most vulnerable. I smile sweetly at Kay and go sit next to Damon, Jack’s poker buddy.
“She’s a bitch, you know,” Damon says. He fiddles with his shirt cuffs and seems uncomfortable in his blue suit, pulled tight across his belly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Damon this dressed up, except for Jack’s and my wedding, when he got so warm standing on the sunny lawn at my parents’ house that he passed out.
I speak softly, so only Damon can hear. “Kay thinks I’m here to grab Jack’s money.”
Damon stops pulling on his cuffs. “What money?”
“That’s the irony of the whole thing - Jack decked out so fancy, the family ready to drop-kick me out the door. He had zilch when I was married to him and he has zilch now.”
“Maybe he socked away some dough nobody knows about.” Damon sounds hopeful, as though he’s bought a lottery ticket with some long-shot numbers.
“No,” I say. “Money wasn’t Jack’s strong point. You should know – all those chits he owed on cards.” He had other assets that made up for the lack of finances, and I savored them, naively hoping that he would change, that I could change him.
Kay is beside me again, her lips compressed in a thin line. “I think you should know that Jack died intestate, and that means everything goes to probate.” She smirks slightly. “Even if he had a will, he didn’t leave you anything. Nothing.”
I try to phrase an appropriate comeback. “It’s not about money,” I start, but Damon jumps in before I can finish. “Bet he didn’t leave you nothing either.” He winks at me. “You were just his sister. Jess was his wife and I was his friend. We have memories of Jack that don’t need a probate judge to tell us they’re ours.”
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Fish Tale
(H is for halibut, hoary, and honor)
Two months into the job, and Cordi knew every regular’s preferred beverage. She could sift the deadbeats from the barflies who had dough, and had memorized The Bartender’s Guide, from the Apple Martini to the White Knight. Mostly, she poured and listened.
The Flying Fish did a brisk business at dinner of seafood and burgers, and then stayed open until two with a part-time night cook in the kitchen for late-hour snacks. Cordi worked the Thursday-Friday late shift, the shift with the best tips.
“Fish and rings tonight, Skip?” Cordi set a frosty glass of ale in front of her favorite regular. He might be fifty – or eighty. She didn’t know, and at twenty-two, anyone older than thirty seemed hoary. Skip Jowett’s beard was more salt than pepper, and he wore a battered captain’s hat, real or costume, she never asked. He was quiet. Even as the hours passed and he asked for yet another tall one, he never grew belligerent – or fell asleep , spilling his drink.
“How about the halibut?” He was more somber than she’d seen him.
“Everything okay?”
He waved her away. “Fine, fine. Tell Drew I want the fish extra crispy. And the onion rings, too.”
After passing on the order to the kitchen, Cordi switched her attention to the others at the bar, but kept an eye on Skip. He sipped his ale and watched the basketball game, but he was distant, distracted.
Drew’s fish platter momentarily brightened Skip’s face. He pushed his ale aside, tucked a napkin into his polo shirt, and with a wink at Cordi, got down to business.
“If you want to talk, I’m here,” she said. “Scout’s honor, whatever’s bothering you stays here. It’s like client privilege, for barkeeps. We don’t gossip.” Then she walked away, to let him think it over.
At a quarter to midnight, Skip finally motioned to her.
“Another Belgian?”
He shook his head. “I’ve had enough, too much probably.” He placed a fifty on the smooth wood. “That should cover it.”
Cordi put her hand on his, feeling the roughness of the skin, the prominent veins. “You need me to call a cab?”
The clink of glasses and the roar of the crowd on the TV filled the silence he let linger. “In a few minutes, I’ll have been married forty-five years. That’s a lifetime. Tomorrow she’s going into hospice. Hell of a way to celebrate an anniversary.”
Two months into the job, and Cordi knew every regular’s preferred beverage. She could sift the deadbeats from the barflies who had dough, and had memorized The Bartender’s Guide, from the Apple Martini to the White Knight. Mostly, she poured and listened.
The Flying Fish did a brisk business at dinner of seafood and burgers, and then stayed open until two with a part-time night cook in the kitchen for late-hour snacks. Cordi worked the Thursday-Friday late shift, the shift with the best tips.
“Fish and rings tonight, Skip?” Cordi set a frosty glass of ale in front of her favorite regular. He might be fifty – or eighty. She didn’t know, and at twenty-two, anyone older than thirty seemed hoary. Skip Jowett’s beard was more salt than pepper, and he wore a battered captain’s hat, real or costume, she never asked. He was quiet. Even as the hours passed and he asked for yet another tall one, he never grew belligerent – or fell asleep , spilling his drink.
“How about the halibut?” He was more somber than she’d seen him.
“Everything okay?”
He waved her away. “Fine, fine. Tell Drew I want the fish extra crispy. And the onion rings, too.”
After passing on the order to the kitchen, Cordi switched her attention to the others at the bar, but kept an eye on Skip. He sipped his ale and watched the basketball game, but he was distant, distracted.
Drew’s fish platter momentarily brightened Skip’s face. He pushed his ale aside, tucked a napkin into his polo shirt, and with a wink at Cordi, got down to business.
“If you want to talk, I’m here,” she said. “Scout’s honor, whatever’s bothering you stays here. It’s like client privilege, for barkeeps. We don’t gossip.” Then she walked away, to let him think it over.
At a quarter to midnight, Skip finally motioned to her.
“Another Belgian?”
He shook his head. “I’ve had enough, too much probably.” He placed a fifty on the smooth wood. “That should cover it.”
Cordi put her hand on his, feeling the roughness of the skin, the prominent veins. “You need me to call a cab?”
The clink of glasses and the roar of the crowd on the TV filled the silence he let linger. “In a few minutes, I’ll have been married forty-five years. That’s a lifetime. Tomorrow she’s going into hospice. Hell of a way to celebrate an anniversary.”
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Night light
(G is for garrison, genuine, and groan)
The garrison commander had barely closed his eyes, ready for the escape that sleep would grant him, when the duty officer shook his shoulder. Newbolt was new but competent, so his lapse of protocol – waking him instead of dealing with the crisis on his own – surprised the commander. The fear in Newbolt’s eyes was genuine, though.
“Another checkpoint problem?” For more than two months, the Runeheads had been slipping past the guards, somehow blending in with the regulars on the route into Locke Town. The garrison’s whole purpose was to monitor the traffic in and out of the city, to stop the Runeheads from gaining a foothold there.
“No, sir.” Newbolt was nervous.
Mosby sat up in bed and reached for his tunic. “What then?” He dressed quickly but thoroughly, aware that the chill of this alien night would knife through him if he wasn’t prepared.
“It’s the blinking light, sir.”
Inwardly, Mosby groaned. It was difficult enough to keep the garrison fully staffed because of its remoteness from Earth-based settlements. Throw in a race that lacked humanoid features and resented the soldiers’ presence. Now he faced his latest challenge, dispelling rumors of the Runeheads’ telepathic control of energy. Three men in the last week had requested a transfer after reporting a blinking light that immobilized them.
“Show me.” He followed Newbolt out to the perimeter gate. The guard station was awash in floodlights, but the brightness stopped a few feet out and the terrain beyond was inky, empty and quiet. “Shut off the lights,” Mosby ordered. He and Newbolt stared into the sudden darkness for several minutes. With his hand on his stunner, he wondered if he could trust Newbolt. Perhaps the duty officer and the others who had seen the phenomenon were in the first stages of hallucination disorder. He would need to file a report, encourage them to seek treatment, and ask for additional staff while they were on sick leave.
“There,” Newbolt hissed.
Mosby scanned the blackness, hoping he would not see anything.
“There – do you see it?” Newbolt’s voice quavered. “What is it? It’s got to stop.” He disappeared into the night.
“Newbolt, wait.” Mosby listened for his footsteps but heard nothing. He moved to switch the floodlights back on, but to above and to his right, a green light began blinking. It was small but insistent, and it was moving. “Newbolt?”
The garrison commander had barely closed his eyes, ready for the escape that sleep would grant him, when the duty officer shook his shoulder. Newbolt was new but competent, so his lapse of protocol – waking him instead of dealing with the crisis on his own – surprised the commander. The fear in Newbolt’s eyes was genuine, though.
“Another checkpoint problem?” For more than two months, the Runeheads had been slipping past the guards, somehow blending in with the regulars on the route into Locke Town. The garrison’s whole purpose was to monitor the traffic in and out of the city, to stop the Runeheads from gaining a foothold there.
“No, sir.” Newbolt was nervous.
Mosby sat up in bed and reached for his tunic. “What then?” He dressed quickly but thoroughly, aware that the chill of this alien night would knife through him if he wasn’t prepared.
“It’s the blinking light, sir.”
Inwardly, Mosby groaned. It was difficult enough to keep the garrison fully staffed because of its remoteness from Earth-based settlements. Throw in a race that lacked humanoid features and resented the soldiers’ presence. Now he faced his latest challenge, dispelling rumors of the Runeheads’ telepathic control of energy. Three men in the last week had requested a transfer after reporting a blinking light that immobilized them.
“Show me.” He followed Newbolt out to the perimeter gate. The guard station was awash in floodlights, but the brightness stopped a few feet out and the terrain beyond was inky, empty and quiet. “Shut off the lights,” Mosby ordered. He and Newbolt stared into the sudden darkness for several minutes. With his hand on his stunner, he wondered if he could trust Newbolt. Perhaps the duty officer and the others who had seen the phenomenon were in the first stages of hallucination disorder. He would need to file a report, encourage them to seek treatment, and ask for additional staff while they were on sick leave.
“There,” Newbolt hissed.
Mosby scanned the blackness, hoping he would not see anything.
“There – do you see it?” Newbolt’s voice quavered. “What is it? It’s got to stop.” He disappeared into the night.
“Newbolt, wait.” Mosby listened for his footsteps but heard nothing. He moved to switch the floodlights back on, but to above and to his right, a green light began blinking. It was small but insistent, and it was moving. “Newbolt?”
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Current
(F is for flotsam)
The melting snow and a week of rain had swelled the Delaware so that the boat launch was completely submerged. With a sigh of disappointment, Robbie dropped her wet bag and life jacket and sat on the riverbank, watching the water sweep past. Tree branches, logs, and soggy plastic bags formed the flotsam along for the ride. Putting a kayak into that current would be risky.
“Scared?” Thomas pulled his kayak up to the edge of the torrent and sat next to her.
“Yeah, you think?” She was angry. It wasn’t his fault the water was up and raging, but it had been his idea to come here, today. “You’re insane if you think I’m going to paddle in this.”
“We won’t be scraping bottom today.” He laughed at his own joke. “ It’ll be a fast trip.” He stood up and began prepping the boat.
“Thomas, you aren’t serious, are you?” Robbie shivered. The sun was up, but they were in shadows on the eastern bank, and the temperature on this April morning was still in the 40s.
Thomas tugged on his kayak skirt, cinched his life jacket around his chest, and pulled on his waterproof gloves. He seemed indifferent to her nervousness.
“Look at the water,” she said. “I’m not going. Please don’t go by yourself.”
Thomas shrugged. “I’ll be fine. Pick me up at Bulls Island.” He looked at the sky, then the river. “Give me an hour, hour and a half.”
“Thomas.” But he was in the kayak and on the water. A moment later, he was gone, out of sight. She ran to a small point of land and spotted his paddle flashing up and down in the sun. “He’s a fool.” She chewed her lip, wishing she had stopped him.
The park at Bulls Island was nearly deserted. Robbie parked near the take-out point, and the small gravel lot, usually packed on a sunny summer day, had only two other vehicles. With an hour to kill, she settled into her seat and closed her eyes. Thomas was experienced on the water – he would make it down the river unscathed.
A tapping on the car window woke her. Thomas was peering in, but he looked pale, shaken.
“Are you okay?” Robbie opened the car door. “You made it okay?” He was wet, his hair slicked down, his shirt and sweatpants drenched, and he was shaking. She helped him out of the wet clothing and wrapped him in a blanket.
“The boat’s gone, smashed up. I had to leave it behind.” His voice broke.
“You swam?”
He rubbed a hand across his face. “More like body surfed. The river was running so fast. I had to work to keep my head above water.” He stopped, then continued somberly. “I wasn’t sure I would—“
Robbie put her finger to his lips. “Shhh. You’re back. That’s enough.”
The melting snow and a week of rain had swelled the Delaware so that the boat launch was completely submerged. With a sigh of disappointment, Robbie dropped her wet bag and life jacket and sat on the riverbank, watching the water sweep past. Tree branches, logs, and soggy plastic bags formed the flotsam along for the ride. Putting a kayak into that current would be risky.
“Scared?” Thomas pulled his kayak up to the edge of the torrent and sat next to her.
“Yeah, you think?” She was angry. It wasn’t his fault the water was up and raging, but it had been his idea to come here, today. “You’re insane if you think I’m going to paddle in this.”
“We won’t be scraping bottom today.” He laughed at his own joke. “ It’ll be a fast trip.” He stood up and began prepping the boat.
“Thomas, you aren’t serious, are you?” Robbie shivered. The sun was up, but they were in shadows on the eastern bank, and the temperature on this April morning was still in the 40s.
Thomas tugged on his kayak skirt, cinched his life jacket around his chest, and pulled on his waterproof gloves. He seemed indifferent to her nervousness.
“Look at the water,” she said. “I’m not going. Please don’t go by yourself.”
Thomas shrugged. “I’ll be fine. Pick me up at Bulls Island.” He looked at the sky, then the river. “Give me an hour, hour and a half.”
“Thomas.” But he was in the kayak and on the water. A moment later, he was gone, out of sight. She ran to a small point of land and spotted his paddle flashing up and down in the sun. “He’s a fool.” She chewed her lip, wishing she had stopped him.
The park at Bulls Island was nearly deserted. Robbie parked near the take-out point, and the small gravel lot, usually packed on a sunny summer day, had only two other vehicles. With an hour to kill, she settled into her seat and closed her eyes. Thomas was experienced on the water – he would make it down the river unscathed.
A tapping on the car window woke her. Thomas was peering in, but he looked pale, shaken.
“Are you okay?” Robbie opened the car door. “You made it okay?” He was wet, his hair slicked down, his shirt and sweatpants drenched, and he was shaking. She helped him out of the wet clothing and wrapped him in a blanket.
“The boat’s gone, smashed up. I had to leave it behind.” His voice broke.
“You swam?”
He rubbed a hand across his face. “More like body surfed. The river was running so fast. I had to work to keep my head above water.” He stopped, then continued somberly. “I wasn’t sure I would—“
Robbie put her finger to his lips. “Shhh. You’re back. That’s enough.”
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Untitled
Week #5
(E is for enigmatic, elbow, and elsewhere)
“He’s so enigmatic! I ask him a question – even something simple like did you see Evan’s new car – and he never answers me straight.”
“Maybe it’s because his thoughts are elsewhere.”
“You’re defending him?”
“He’s always been nice to me. Anyway, I think he’s got an eloquent way of speaking. Classy. You can tell he’s smart.”
“One guy’s eloquence is another’s BS.”
“You seem pretty decided about him. Or is it envy?”
“Hardly. So he makes better grades. A lot of people do – I’m no genius. But he likes to elbow his way into conversations to show off.”
“He’s funny, though. You have to admit that much.”
“You mean the excuse he used when he didn’t have his paper done?”
“Yeah. ‘Was that due this week?’ After Sedgely had just reminded us. Everyone just fell out. ”
(E is for enigmatic, elbow, and elsewhere)
“He’s so enigmatic! I ask him a question – even something simple like did you see Evan’s new car – and he never answers me straight.”
“Maybe it’s because his thoughts are elsewhere.”
“You’re defending him?”
“He’s always been nice to me. Anyway, I think he’s got an eloquent way of speaking. Classy. You can tell he’s smart.”
“One guy’s eloquence is another’s BS.”
“You seem pretty decided about him. Or is it envy?”
“Hardly. So he makes better grades. A lot of people do – I’m no genius. But he likes to elbow his way into conversations to show off.”
“He’s funny, though. You have to admit that much.”
“You mean the excuse he used when he didn’t have his paper done?”
“Yeah. ‘Was that due this week?’ After Sedgely had just reminded us. Everyone just fell out. ”
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Walk on the Wild Side (Part 2)
Week #4
(D is for destiny and dolmen)
Gingerly, Chris used his weight to push against the rock that held his foot but stopped with a yelp of pain. The left ankle seemed sprained. He was in a double bind: a trapped right foot and a bum left one. Is this my destiny? That I die on this lonely scrap of earth? He shook his head and laughed out loud. “Get a grip, Chris.” He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and called the B&B.
“Pam, it’s Chris, your guest.” He described the rocky ridge, the boulders, hoping the details would help her – or her husband – find him. “I’m almost out of water, too. I just didn’t think it’d be this dry.”
But Pam, despite her earlier concern, was tied up with other guests, and Roger, the husband, was out on an errand.
“Don’t you understand?” Chris held up his water bottle, eyeing the dwindling contents. His voice bounced and echoed against the granite that penned him in. “I can’t get out of here. I’m stuck. I need help.” He hung up and called 911. Once again, he tried to describe his surroundings, which seemed more remote and forbidding with each added detail. Panicky that rescuers might be hours away, he repeatedly jerked his right foot to free it, but the boot would not give. If the boot wouldn’t fit back through the crevice, perhaps the foot without the boot would. He worked to loosen the laces. Now able wiggle his ankle slightly, he took a breath, said a silent prayer, and pulled. “Yes!” His foot was free.
Satisfaction turned to dismay when he saw his feet side by side. The right ankle was swollen, and the left, still in the hiking boot, felt as fat as a loaf of bologna. He could not walk out of there. He pulled himself upright and yelled for help. He cupped his hands and shouted for several minutes, then listened to the silence that settled back down around him. He slumped against the boulder that still held his boot and drank the last of his water. He remembered the sense of unease he’d felt just before he slipped. Absurdly, what he now felt was peace. The rocks would form his tomb, a dolmen of sorts for the buzzards to discover.
He was dozing, with his pack behind his head, when he heard the helicopter. It was distant but coming closer.
(D is for destiny and dolmen)
Gingerly, Chris used his weight to push against the rock that held his foot but stopped with a yelp of pain. The left ankle seemed sprained. He was in a double bind: a trapped right foot and a bum left one. Is this my destiny? That I die on this lonely scrap of earth? He shook his head and laughed out loud. “Get a grip, Chris.” He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and called the B&B.
“Pam, it’s Chris, your guest.” He described the rocky ridge, the boulders, hoping the details would help her – or her husband – find him. “I’m almost out of water, too. I just didn’t think it’d be this dry.”
But Pam, despite her earlier concern, was tied up with other guests, and Roger, the husband, was out on an errand.
“Don’t you understand?” Chris held up his water bottle, eyeing the dwindling contents. His voice bounced and echoed against the granite that penned him in. “I can’t get out of here. I’m stuck. I need help.” He hung up and called 911. Once again, he tried to describe his surroundings, which seemed more remote and forbidding with each added detail. Panicky that rescuers might be hours away, he repeatedly jerked his right foot to free it, but the boot would not give. If the boot wouldn’t fit back through the crevice, perhaps the foot without the boot would. He worked to loosen the laces. Now able wiggle his ankle slightly, he took a breath, said a silent prayer, and pulled. “Yes!” His foot was free.
Satisfaction turned to dismay when he saw his feet side by side. The right ankle was swollen, and the left, still in the hiking boot, felt as fat as a loaf of bologna. He could not walk out of there. He pulled himself upright and yelled for help. He cupped his hands and shouted for several minutes, then listened to the silence that settled back down around him. He slumped against the boulder that still held his boot and drank the last of his water. He remembered the sense of unease he’d felt just before he slipped. Absurdly, what he now felt was peace. The rocks would form his tomb, a dolmen of sorts for the buzzards to discover.
He was dozing, with his pack behind his head, when he heard the helicopter. It was distant but coming closer.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Walk on the Wild Side
Week #3
(C is for continental, chiaroscuro, and captive)
Chris tightened the laces on his hiking boots and mentally reviewed his checklist: pack, lunch, binoculars, camera. He smiled. I am so ready. He had planned this outing for more than seven months, as a deserved break after three long days of conference sessions and networking and talking up his company. He would end his business trip to Colorado with a walk along the Continental Divide – and if he could, he would straddle the line, with one foot in the east and the other in the west. He had rented a car and driven more than two hours southwest from his Colorado Springs hotel to this spot.
“Do you want Dan to come along?” Last night, the B&B owner had offered her husband as a hiking partner. She worried that Chris would get lost, fall into a culvert, get eaten by a bear – Chris wasn’t sure exactly what she feared.
He had no second thoughts. “I’ve been hiking for years. Every trail has its adventures. I’ll be careful.”
He set out as the sun was cresting the Sangre de Cristos to the east. The B&B, really a camp, was set high up the valley. The bright horizon cast the valley in deep shadow, and the nearside was a study in chiaroscuro.
Chris walked quickly, following a path he guessed was used by goats or deer. The trees were stubby, and the brush was dry. He stopped often for water breaks, surprised at how thirsty he was. The altitude and the low humidity seemed to suck moisture from him.
A little after noon, he reached the top of a rise that looked out over a stretch of boulders. He unfolded a small map the B&B owner had given him. By his guess, he was at nine thousand feet, give or take a couple of hundred. The real trail, the one that ran along the Divide, was still several miles ahead. He took some snapshots of the view. It was quiet and serene. He saw nothing moving except for a few buzzards coasting on the thermals. He was utterly alone.
Shrugging off a slight unease, he started into the rocky area, careful to watch his step. Within a few minutes, his mouth felt parched again. He glanced down to reach for his water bottle, and his ankle twisted sharply, sending him off balance. He was tumbling and sliding then. When he stopped, his right foot, the one that hadn’t turned, was stuck. He was a captive with no one but the wind to demand ransom.
(to be continued)
(C is for continental, chiaroscuro, and captive)
Chris tightened the laces on his hiking boots and mentally reviewed his checklist: pack, lunch, binoculars, camera. He smiled. I am so ready. He had planned this outing for more than seven months, as a deserved break after three long days of conference sessions and networking and talking up his company. He would end his business trip to Colorado with a walk along the Continental Divide – and if he could, he would straddle the line, with one foot in the east and the other in the west. He had rented a car and driven more than two hours southwest from his Colorado Springs hotel to this spot.
“Do you want Dan to come along?” Last night, the B&B owner had offered her husband as a hiking partner. She worried that Chris would get lost, fall into a culvert, get eaten by a bear – Chris wasn’t sure exactly what she feared.
He had no second thoughts. “I’ve been hiking for years. Every trail has its adventures. I’ll be careful.”
He set out as the sun was cresting the Sangre de Cristos to the east. The B&B, really a camp, was set high up the valley. The bright horizon cast the valley in deep shadow, and the nearside was a study in chiaroscuro.
Chris walked quickly, following a path he guessed was used by goats or deer. The trees were stubby, and the brush was dry. He stopped often for water breaks, surprised at how thirsty he was. The altitude and the low humidity seemed to suck moisture from him.
A little after noon, he reached the top of a rise that looked out over a stretch of boulders. He unfolded a small map the B&B owner had given him. By his guess, he was at nine thousand feet, give or take a couple of hundred. The real trail, the one that ran along the Divide, was still several miles ahead. He took some snapshots of the view. It was quiet and serene. He saw nothing moving except for a few buzzards coasting on the thermals. He was utterly alone.
Shrugging off a slight unease, he started into the rocky area, careful to watch his step. Within a few minutes, his mouth felt parched again. He glanced down to reach for his water bottle, and his ankle twisted sharply, sending him off balance. He was tumbling and sliding then. When he stopped, his right foot, the one that hadn’t turned, was stuck. He was a captive with no one but the wind to demand ransom.
(to be continued)
Thursday, January 14, 2010
In Bloom
Week #2
(B is for bougainvillea, boomerang and bifurcate)
Sprinkled with papery scarlet blooms, the bougainvillea formed the lintel of the garden gate. The gate itself was wood, roughened and cracked after years of harsh sun and driving rain. It screeched in complaint whenever the caretaker bothered to close it, so he didn’t often. It was his way of encouraging others – mostly the kids – to enjoy the garden. Jake’s employer, the landowner, lived in California and rarely visited. Jake was paid to keep the grounds neat, the trees pruned, and the garden lush. The day he fished the boomerang down from the sweet gum, he knew the garden had uninvited guests. From that point, he left the garden gate ajar. Nearly every day since, he noticed footprints in the moist dirt by the fountain. A jacket might get left beside one of the apple trees, their low-lying branches perfect for young climbers. Or he might find an empty water bottle stashed in the crook of the dogwood. Jake placed these objects beside the gate when he left for the day, and they were always gone by the time he returned.
One September, when Jake had been caretaker for four years, the California owner called to say he was selling the property. He was sorry, but Jake had one more week on the payroll. That’s all the notice he could give. Stunned, Jake walked the garden, circling the fountain again and again and alternating between the left and right fork of the path. He felt grafted to the place. By leaving, he would be ripping out a piece of himself – would it grow back?
On his last day, Jake pushed the gate open as wide as it could go. His jacket sleeve brushed the woody bougainvillea stock, and the thorns tore a small hole in the fabric. The threads caught by the plant rippled in the breeze.
(B is for bougainvillea, boomerang and bifurcate)
Sprinkled with papery scarlet blooms, the bougainvillea formed the lintel of the garden gate. The gate itself was wood, roughened and cracked after years of harsh sun and driving rain. It screeched in complaint whenever the caretaker bothered to close it, so he didn’t often. It was his way of encouraging others – mostly the kids – to enjoy the garden. Jake’s employer, the landowner, lived in California and rarely visited. Jake was paid to keep the grounds neat, the trees pruned, and the garden lush. The day he fished the boomerang down from the sweet gum, he knew the garden had uninvited guests. From that point, he left the garden gate ajar. Nearly every day since, he noticed footprints in the moist dirt by the fountain. A jacket might get left beside one of the apple trees, their low-lying branches perfect for young climbers. Or he might find an empty water bottle stashed in the crook of the dogwood. Jake placed these objects beside the gate when he left for the day, and they were always gone by the time he returned.
One September, when Jake had been caretaker for four years, the California owner called to say he was selling the property. He was sorry, but Jake had one more week on the payroll. That’s all the notice he could give. Stunned, Jake walked the garden, circling the fountain again and again and alternating between the left and right fork of the path. He felt grafted to the place. By leaving, he would be ripping out a piece of himself – would it grow back?
On his last day, Jake pushed the gate open as wide as it could go. His jacket sleeve brushed the woody bougainvillea stock, and the thorns tore a small hole in the fabric. The threads caught by the plant rippled in the breeze.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Purple Prose
(Week #1 - A is for auberine and abominable)
Melinda was pleased to see that the produce section of the Giant was well stocked. She picked her way down the aisle, filling her basket with a head of Romaine, a cluster of tomatoes, three yellow onions, and a medium eggplant. She turned back for a handful of Granny Smiths. She would bake a pie; it was cold out and the smell of pie in the oven would impress Patrick. She hoped, anyway. That and a bowlful of ratatouille. But maybe he was a meat-and-potatoes man? She tried to remember what she’d seen him eating for lunch at his desk: hoagies, chips, Snickers. She sighed. She could always wear something sexy, which would short-circuit any complaints about her menu.
She was expecting him at seven o’clock, and it was four now. They planned to eat first, then watch an old episode or two of Doctor Who. She was astonished to find someone else who loved the show as much as she did, someone who not only worked in the same office, but in a cubicle on the same floor. His calendar, with stills from the show, caught her eye several weeks ago when she passed by on her way to a department meeting. Patrick had also decorated his workspace with a two-foot-high replica of the blue police box that served as the Doctor’s vehicle through space and time.
Danny, her old boyfriend, had laughed at her obsession and refused to watch the show with her. He hated science fiction – whether in movies or books – and they hadn’t lasted long as a couple.
At the checkout, the clerk wrinkled her nose at the eggplant. “I’ll eat salad, but I draw the line at purple food.” She slipped the vegetables into a plastic bag, and Melinda swiped her debit card through the reader.
“It’s not purple through and through, you know.” Melinda was amused. The clerk looked all of seventeen, and her fingernails were the same violet shade.
“Oh, I know, I know. But the thought of actually taking a bite of it...” She shuddered. “Abominable.”
Melinda was pleased to see that the produce section of the Giant was well stocked. She picked her way down the aisle, filling her basket with a head of Romaine, a cluster of tomatoes, three yellow onions, and a medium eggplant. She turned back for a handful of Granny Smiths. She would bake a pie; it was cold out and the smell of pie in the oven would impress Patrick. She hoped, anyway. That and a bowlful of ratatouille. But maybe he was a meat-and-potatoes man? She tried to remember what she’d seen him eating for lunch at his desk: hoagies, chips, Snickers. She sighed. She could always wear something sexy, which would short-circuit any complaints about her menu.
She was expecting him at seven o’clock, and it was four now. They planned to eat first, then watch an old episode or two of Doctor Who. She was astonished to find someone else who loved the show as much as she did, someone who not only worked in the same office, but in a cubicle on the same floor. His calendar, with stills from the show, caught her eye several weeks ago when she passed by on her way to a department meeting. Patrick had also decorated his workspace with a two-foot-high replica of the blue police box that served as the Doctor’s vehicle through space and time.
Danny, her old boyfriend, had laughed at her obsession and refused to watch the show with her. He hated science fiction – whether in movies or books – and they hadn’t lasted long as a couple.
At the checkout, the clerk wrinkled her nose at the eggplant. “I’ll eat salad, but I draw the line at purple food.” She slipped the vegetables into a plastic bag, and Melinda swiped her debit card through the reader.
“It’s not purple through and through, you know.” Melinda was amused. The clerk looked all of seventeen, and her fingernails were the same violet shade.
“Oh, I know, I know. But the thought of actually taking a bite of it...” She shuddered. “Abominable.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
