(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.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
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.”
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