Halloween 2021 As the Crow Flies

Halloween 2021

AS THE CROW FLIES

She didn’t know why she did it. Maybe it was because the car was topped off with gas, the laundry had all been folded and ironed, and dinner was up to whomever was hungry. But one second she was contemplating washing the family room windows, and the next thing she knew, she had her car keys in her hands, her purse slung over her shoulder, and she’d slipped the car into gear and was pulling out of the driveway.

Driving wasn’t something she did very often. Gas wasn’t cheap, she had nowhere to go, really, and passing other cars on the highway made her nauseous. Maybe it was because she was, at her age, woefully inexperienced behind the wheel, that she hadn’t given herself time to think about what she was doing. She only knew she had to get out of there and right now. Not five minutes from now. Not tomorrow. And certainly not next week. She wasn’t at all sure she shouldn’t have done this yesterday or the day before.

Time had turned fluid in the past year. Routines she’d kept for years had grounded her somewhat: clean the sheets on Monday, vacuum on Tuesday, wash the kitchen floor on Wednesday. So many days of her life had been tied up in the minutiae of everyday life, she’d managed to ignore the world on a broader basis. Not any longer. Not when every second counted.

Not all her children had returned home to be with her. They had when their father died five years ago, but now James and Mariah had chosen to watch the sun set from the beaches of Hawaii. She didn’t begrudge them their choice. Still, with Matty and Lynn at home, she’d felt more grounded, more focused on living each day as if it were normal. Then today had happened. She hoped they’d forgive her for abandoning them.

It all started with a crow. She’d first noticed it several weeks ago and wondered why it hadn’t taken wing like the other birds she’d fed and watered through the years. All of them had skedaddled, which was totally understandable, albeit sad. But this one crow had decided to stick it out, and she’d wondered why. Then she saw the polished rock it had deposited on her chair on the deck and fingering it, knowing the stone had spent thousands of years being polished by running water, she felt grateful. The crow had given her something else to think about besides the End. 

In return, she’d left a small silver button, one of the many in her button box, in the same spot on her chair. It disappeared the same day. The following day, a small seashell had replaced it. She couldn’t help but wonder where on earth the crow had found it. As thanks, she found a skein of red embroidery thread, and leaving it on the chair, she hid behind the kitchen curtains to wait for the crow to find it.

When he alighted, he pecked at the thread as if trying to figure out what it was. Tossing it from his beak into the air, he danced around the skein, dragging it from one end of the chair to the other. At last, she realized he was playing with it. Laughing, she gave away her hiding spot and sure enough, the crow stopped, thread dangling from his beak, to stare right at her.

“Hello, Mr. Crow,” she whispered, waving one hand at him. He took off, thread in tow.

The third day she found a tattered and water damaged old photo on her chair. In it, a couple smiled at each other, arms around their waists, their clothes old-fashioned and the woman’s hairstyle from the Forties, she guessed. She wondered where the crow had found it, and inserting it into her wallet, she knew she’d turn to it for strength when the time came. The crow was telling her that love was immortal, she had no doubt. In response, she left a Christmas ornament that had been a favorite, a felt-stuffed bird with green feathers fashioned by her daughter when she was learning how to sew in the Girl Scouts. 

The gift-giving had been going on for weeks. She didn’t tell Lynn or Matty about her new friend, because she knew they weren’t interested. All they wanted to do was moan and cry, giving her dirty looks when she asked for their help in keeping the grass cut or the vacuum run through the house. “Why bother?” was the basic response. “Why not?” she answered to their complete disgust. Maybe, she thought, it would have been better if they’d taken off for Hawaiian sunsets with their siblings.

The day she went to check for Mr. Crow’s next gift, he surprised her by flying around her head in circles, cawing to beat the band. “What do you want, friend?” she asked over and over. Finally, he flew to her car’s hood, where he sat, staring at her until she followed him. Ducking his head over and over, he positioned himself so he faced South. Taking off, he flew in that direction, returning after several yards to the hood of her car, then repeating the maneuver. 

“You’re leaving too, aren’t you?” She understood his body language as clearly as if he’d spoken English. “Safe travels, my friend.” She laid her last gift, a rhinestone button, on the hood of the car and turned to leave. She’d miss him, she realized.

He wasn’t having any of it. Flying back to her, he circled her so closely she was pinned against the car’s door. Then once more, after picking up the button, he flew South. That was when she knew what he’d been telling her.

She went inside and thought about the crow. Animals, she knew, possessed extraordinary senses that humans had never developed. The news had never given any hope of survival, but maybe, the scientists were wrong and the crow knew it. As she continued to stare out the family room window in the direction the crow had taken, she thought about giving the glass a good scrubbing with vinegar water. 

That brought her up short. Mr. Crow had come into her life with a message, and she was going to ignore it? How many times had she fallen into the trap of the mundane when the universe had been giving her clues about the extraordinary? Without another thought, she picked up her car keys and was gone. No good-byes. No farewell hugs and kisses. The kids had never liked that sort of thing, anyway.

Surprised at the lack of traffic, she started to enjoy the drive. The old-fashioned compass attached to her windshield still worked, so she knew she was going South. Just for the heck of it, after a few hours of driving, she pulled off the interstate highway onto small back roads, slowing down to admire the trees and fields, the small white farmhouses waiting quietly by themselves. When it grew dark, she pulled into a driveway closed off with a metal gate, shut the car down, and slid her seat back to sleep a few minutes. She hadn’t driven this far by herself in years, but she was strangely refreshed by the activity.

When she awoke, the sun was barely up. Relieving herself between two opened car doors, she regretted not bringing anything but a few tissues in her purse. Surely, she could have remembered her toothbrush as well? But she had no one to be bothered by her morning breath so who cared? Not her. 

The next time she saw a sign pointing the way to the Interstate, she pulled back onto it. She’d have to find a gas station pretty soon. She had no idea if they were still open, having filled her tank long before the news turned deadly. Hoping for the best, she exited when she saw a Shell station sign. No one else was there. Wondering if the pumps worked, she pulled the lever, and sure enough, gas flowed into her tank. So far, so good, she told herself. A mini-mart attached to the gas station was dark, but she hoped someone was still on duty. She was starving. The door was unlocked, a good sign. “Hello?” she called out, “I need a few things. I can pay cash if your credit card machine is down.”

No one answered. Taking a small basket, she loaded it with potato chips, a roll of toilet paper, pork rinds, a six pack of Coke, Twinkies, a couple of bags of peanuts, and some bottled water. What the hell, she thought, I’m going to eat what I want, even though she’d avoided everything edible in her basket for most of her adult life. 

With no one behind the counter, she sighed and took out her wallet. Estimating how much she owed, she left a twenty on the counter for food and another twenty for gas, weighing it down with a packet of gum. She wondered if Mr. Crow was still ahead of her or if he’d taken a detour too. Pulling away from the Shell station, she glanced in her rearview mirror, hoping to see someone walking out the door. But the place was as devoid of human activity as when she’d driven in. Seeing no signs of life on her drive was starting to bother her. Had everyone decided on a sunset in Hawaii but her?

The idea hadn’t appealed to her. Seemed too much like a Jones cult mass suicide, but of course, her kids were too young to remember the arsenic laced drink everyone had consumed. If she was going to die, she had wanted it to be where she felt most at home. In her house filled with memories of all the years she’d been busy and productive. Of course, no one now valued a woman’s work that way – she hadn’t made millions or invented a cool app, or influenced anyone on the Internet. She was just who she was, and until that moment, good with her choices.

Just as she was contemplating turning around and heading home, the crow dive-bombed her, picking up a few strands of her gray hair in his beak as he made a swift pass. 

“That hurt, dang it!” She rubbed the top of her head. To give the crow credit, it had taken only a few strands. 

Glancing up, she watched the crow circle her a few times before settling on the top of her car. Watching her with his dark eyes, he seemed to know what she’d been thinking seconds before.

“Okay, you win. A few more miles,” she sighed, waving her car keys so he could see them. “I haven’t been out of the yard in months, it feels good to see new scenery,” she reminded herself and him. She wondered if he understood.

Bobbing his head, the crow flung himself into the sky, cawing loudly as if urging her to hurry up and follow him. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she started the car up and pulled back onto the Interstate. As she drove, she tried to imagine if her children had noticed her absence by now, or if they were so mired in their grief they had no idea she even existed. She rather thought the latter. 

This time the crow didn’t leave her. Whenever she thought he’d taken off, he would reappear in front of her, riding the currents or making lazy Z shapes in the sky. She didn’t drive fast, since there was no one on the highway who would be annoyed at her snail’s pace, and she was determined to keep the crow in sight. He was the only living thing she’d seen all day.

Then, without warning, the crow flew so close to her windshield, she had to hit the brakes. With a cry she couldn’t ignore, he veered to the right, towards the mountains. Stopping the car, she wondered what he was up to. What the heck,she reasoned, she’d already lost most of her mind, why not lose the rest of it? Cranking the wheel, she jerked the car over the highway shoulder and into a field of dried and broken corn stalks. She’d never get the car clean if she kept on, but at this point, who cared about the state of the car? The tank was still pretty full, she could follow the crow a while longer, and if her brain decided to flip on the Logical switch, she’d still make it home, she hoped. 

She was so busy keeping her eye on the crow, she wasn’t aware the terrain had taken a rough turn until she heard the undercarriage scrape loudly. Slamming on the brakes, she noticed the boulders and good-sized rocks that would destroy the underneath of the car. She didn’t want to risk it, so she put the sedan into Park and pulled out her cell phone. No service, of course. Wouldn’t do any good to call AAA, now that she thought about it.  The news had consistently and persistently warned people there was no escaping this meteor, and that trying to hide from its devastation was just pissing in the wind. So she’d accepted her final days with resignation and only a modicum of anger. Unlike her kids.

She’d heard on the news that mass suicides were the norm now that the Big Day was growing closer. She couldn’t imagine giving up even one precious moment, but how she wished she’d been able to talk about it with Ken, her husband. Maybe when she was dust in the wind, she’d find him and say all the things she’d kept bottled up for years. His face would register surprise, then he’d smile slowly, and taking her in his arms, he’d hug her annoyance right out of her.

Lost in her daydream, she missed the crow turning left, heading deeper into the valley than she thought possible for a car to go. Leaving the vehicle behind, she brought her purse and keys, because she wanted it to be there when she returned from viewing what the crow wanted her to see. Very few trees graced the landscape. Ancient ice had slid through this valley, depositing rubble and rocks in its path. Slipping on stone detritus, she had to catch herself several times. Breaking a hip or a leg at this stage of the crisis would be stupid. Of course, following a black bird into the hills wasn’t too bright, either. She’d never done anything like this in her entire life. She didn’t like or approve of spontaneity. No, such actions lead to disaster. Witness her husband’s death if she needed any other proof. The man had never gone four-wheeling in his life. One and done was the way she thought of his death. 

Breathless, she sat on a boulder and half-turning, surveyed the way she’d come. At least, she thought it was the way she’d come. Like an idiot, she hadn’t left any markers on the rocks to guide her back to the car. Every rock looked the same. If the End came now, she’d feel like a first-class fool. Anyone who ever read fairy tales knew you needed breadcrumbs to find your way home. But she had no breadcrumbs, so she rose from the rock and checking to see where the crow was now, tried to keep up.  What, after all, did she have to lose?

She was almost upon it, when she realized the glint on the ground wasn’t the setting sun reflecting off mica deposits. The rhinestone button, her last gift to the crow, lay in front of her. Picking it up, she tried to find the bird to let him know she had it, but he was nowhere she could see. Glancing down, she realized the red embroidery thread had been detangled, and lay in a straight line before her. He was leaving her a path, she thought. One she’d know was his. Mr. Crow was too clever for a bird, she thought.

The red button lay at the edge of a hill, a smaller one that terraced up to a bigger mountain. Bending down to pick it up, she felt a rush of cool air on her face. Air coming from somewhere behind the few bushes that lay in front of her. Shoving them aside, the current grew stronger. A loud cry from above told her the Mr. Crow had been watching her. Stepping closer, she realized she’d found the entrance to a cave. Or rather, the crow had.

Fishing her cell from her purse, she turned on the flashlight and aimed it at the entrance. 

“Turn that thing off!” Movement within the cave startled, then frightened her. “Let your eyes get used to the dark, you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t like the dark,” she snapped. “And who are you?”

The man who edged to the entrance resembled her late husband, but younger and more handsome. His dark hair wasn’t like her husband’s, either, but now that she thought about it, she felt his voice from the cave had seemed familiar. Like an echo of her husband’s, before his vocal chords became burdened with age. 

“I’ve been waiting for you. Our friend told me he’d fetch you before it was too late.”

“What friend?” She kept her distance. Every inch of her began to prickle, her skin dancing with fear and anticipation.

“You know who. He barely got to you in time. It’s almost over, isn’t it? I don’t have any way to get news in here, but I can sense the shift in the sun has become more drastic. Won’t you come in and make yourself to home?”

Her husband had used that phrase, “make yourself to home.” 

“My home isn’t here. It’s back there.” She nodded in the vague direction of town. 

“It’ll be gone before tomorrow dawns. There won’t be a dawn. I hope you said your good-byes. We, my friend and I, knew you were lonely and we couldn’t let you go without trying to bring you to me. To be honest, I didn’t think you would come. You’ve never been very adventurous, my dear.”

“How would you know?” But she knew how. She’d known for several minutes. “Oh, this is silly. How long ago did you set up this cave? Does it have enough supplies to last until the planet adjusts to the new normal, whatever that is? I hear water will cover most of the earth, should we go higher?” She looked at the mountain above her and doubted she could climb it, not at her age.

“We’re safe here. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. Didn’t have anything to do but get ready. We’ll be fine.” With that, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, whispering a kiss on her cheek. “More than fine.”

Relaxing in his arms for one second, she straightened herself and gave him a playful tap on the chest. “That’s what you always say. Better let me check out what you’ve got going on in there.”

He never asked her about the children, she noted with gratitude. She’d have had a hard time saying she’d left them to their fates. Good mothers didn’t abandon their children, no matter how old and selfish they were. Forcing them from her thoughts, she realized her eyes had adjusted to the darkness rapidly. The extent of the the boxes piled high testified to his preparedness, something she’d never expected to find in her husband of fifty years. She’d always been the one to think ahead, to plan for their future.

“Oh my,” she sighed, “I can only say, I’m impressed.” Holding out a hand to him, she saw that the veins that had protruded from her skin had smoothed out, and her hips didn’t ache anymore. In fact, she felt downright spry. “You must have discovered the fountain of youth while you were doing all this disaster prepping.”

“You’re my fountain of youth.” With that, he kissed her once more as the crow cried from outside the cave. “Thank you, my friend, for bringing her to me.”

~

The apocalypse, the disaster of Biblical proportions, that had been foretold for a year, swept away all signs of mankind and his stupidity. Good people, bad people, and everyone in between, met their ends with a variety of reactions. Some cried, some prayed, some cursed. In the end, no one survived. The woman died alone on her back deck, clutching a red ribbon she’d left for the crow who never returned, her children too absorbed in their misery to stand by her side and hold hands as the end of humanity crashed down upon them all.

October again . . .

Where has this year gone? Like last year, filled with Pandemic seclusion, I’ve been out and about mostly for necessities. Church is back, and that’s taking a lot of my time, but except for our short trip out West, we’ve laid low. It’s too soon to let our guard down totally. Sigh.

It seems things have changed drastically, in some cases, since we went into lockdown. Favorite restaurants, open for years, are now empty spaces. Stores are for lease which once held regular shopping spots. Even trees are gone - it seems as if there’s been a steady massacre of them this year by the county and highway departments. I hate to say it, but the external world is looking physically a little bit ugly. Plain and simple. I know change is inevitable, but it’s as if the ugly bug crept in while no one was looking, like those stink bugs that crawl through impossibly tiny spaces to infest your house.

I promise to get to work on the new Halloween story. To be honest, I forgot about it! I’ve been hard at work on the mystery, cozied up in my She Shed, the outside world at bay for a few hours a day. When I come out of my fictitious world, I admit I sometimes feel overwhelmed by how much needs to be done to improve our world, our society, our town. My small part feels like the proverbial drop in a very large bucket.

Water poverty

We’re home from a quick trip out West - did the National Parks in Arizona and Utah. Arches was one of my favs, the Canyonlands were spectacular and of course, the Grand Canyon is awe-inspiring. But I couldn’t help but be concerned by the level of the Colorado and San Juan rivers. Like - this is a river? Really? I live on the James River, and even at its lowest, you know it’s a river.

Monument Valley brought home to me how precious water is. The sand is a formidable force, red and all-pervasive. The hotel asked us to limit showers to 2 minutes. Even that seemed wasteful. The scarcity of water is echoed in the poverty of those trying to live there. Nowhere in America should there exist such third-world conditions. I felt ashamed to be taking up precious resources with my stay in a hotel on the Navajo reservation.

This problem must find its solution. Instead of inventing Space X or Google or PayPal, why can’t the creative brains in our nation focus on a project that will save a people and their land?

The Girl and the Gunslinger

I put this book out just before Unknown Soldier, and I have to admit, I promptly forgot about it since I had a new and shiny book to play with. The pandemic has been good for my writing - we introverts don’t get out much anyway, since we’re focused on our own small writing world. Which is an odd way of saying, we hunker down even more and make the world go away as we disappear into our newest creations.

This book was such fun to write. Ruella, the main character, appeared to me as a full-blown young woman, fighting for her sheep, her land, and her heritage. She’ll do whatever she has to do to keep them safe and secure. As it happens, her plans hinge on hiring a gunfighter, adrift in a small western town with nowhere to go and no future to plan. The man, however, wants one thing before he meets his inevitable, violent end. A child. Someone to carry on his name. When he proposes his fee to Ruella McQuaid, she agrees. That’s when the proverbial fireworks start. Ruella is no prissy young miss, nor is she afraid of much except what’s destroying her sheep, Love doesn’t enter into the bargain she’s struck with this devil of a man. Or so she thinks.

This is an unusual western romance with elements of the classic gunfighter story turned on its head. I hope you’ll read and enjoy it. Available on Amazon as an ebook or paperback.

New book! UNKNOWN SOLDIER →

Is out today on Kindle!! I’ll get the paperback version up as soon as the cover is completed. This book took many years to produce - the first two in the Tal Jefferson mystery series, Wishful Sinful and Yes, the River Knows, were published sequentially by Penguin Prime Crime. Then my editor departed and I was orphaned, as the lingo has it. I knew there were more Tal Jefferson stories stewing in the depths of my imagination, but I decided to try my hand at other genres, testing the waters, so to speak. Wrote Murder on the Mattaponi, Whatever Lola Wants, The Girl and the Gunslinger - as you can tell, I was all over the map, trying to find a good fit for my style of writing. I enjoyed writing them all. But Tal was still there, kicking my fanny to let her out of the Land of Lost Stories. Finally, I could ignore her no longer, and she has emerged more kick-ass than ever, still fighting her attraction to Kentucky’s finest and hopelessly in love with the complicated Travis Whitlock.

And yes, the titles all come from songs published by the Doors. If you listen to their lyrics, you’ll see how each song fits the story line of its book.

Read UNKNOWN SOLDIER. I think you’ll like it.

It's a crazy time of year...

I’ve been meaning to write this blog for ages, but it seems all my energy has been directed to holding my breath until the Inauguration of #46 happened. After January 6, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Now that we’re facing the farce (because the weenie Repubs not only have no balls, they’re spineless as well) of #45’s impeachment trial, I’m back to a slow simmer of worry and anger. Add in the Pandemic, and boy howdy, I’m hanging on by my fingernails.

Which leads me to an email I received today, in which the writer informed me I had misspelled “exhilaration.” Now, I know how to spell the durned word, but I’ll be switched if I’m going to read every bloomin’ word in this blog and website to find it. I have a suspicion the email was designed to get me to buy a spell checker program, which ain’t gonna happen. Quite often, I misspell words on purpose, making them more colloquial or the way I want them to sound in dialect. Not the case here, I’m sure, but sheesh. Get a life, lady.

Am almost finished with the third Tal Jefferson book, which remains Unknown Soldier for now. I’m almost settled on Debt of Honor, but that will kick it out of the Doors’ discography. Have to think on it some. Need to get it and my edited thriller, Deadly Devotion, to my wunderkind cover designer. Thanks, Carolyn Greene, for the title!

New short story - lead in for The Girl and the Gunslinger

Five Sisters 

            The season was almost too late for crossing into the Territories, but Mark McQuaid was built of sturdier stuff than most immigrants to this West of the United States. Winters in Scotland were naught to fear, and nothing could be more harrowing than a snowstorm in the highlands. He knew his hearty Scottish sheep would welcome the cold, which he fervently hoped would descend soon.

            Crossing the ocean with the few sheep he hoped to use to start his empire had been nothing short of a bother, so he had welcomed the travel across the rough land with his stocked wagon and substantial oxen. A Scotsman knew oxen, he was proud of saying, and he’d bought well. The sheep soon gained their land legs, and the wide expanse of unsettled land told him he’d made a wise choice. Of course, he’d never have left the highlands if his wife hadn’t died, young and so pretty his heart still ached at the memory of her sweet face. With neither child nor reason to stay, his four surviving sisters all married and scattered long ago, he’d sold the homestead and packed up what belongings he’d need, the spinning wheel and carder the women in his family had used for generations, and bought his ticket for America.

            All this passed through his mind as he checked his map and compass again, estimating the remaining time he’d spend on the trail. The wind picked up, the sheep lifted their heads to sniff, and he shivered just a hair under the woolen shirt his sisters had made for him for his wedding. He’d thought it would be a good luck gesture to wear it on this new adventure. But he’d been warned before he left the last town where he’d stocked up on supplies that he was getting into Indian raiding season, with the moon growing brighter and the horses feeling frisky. 

            The few Indians he’d met so far had seemed more sad than bloodthirsty. Sure, he wasn’t going to let his guard down, but he wasn’t going to delay claiming his land until next Spring, either. All the wagon trains had departed weeks earlier, so he’d had no choice but to go it alone. All in all, he thought he’d made the right choice. He could forge his own pace and path, and his sheep wouldn’t bother anyone else. He knew most farmers and cattlemen in this country disliked the creatures, but that didn’t bother him. He’d show them how to raise sheep the right way, so the grass didn’t die because of overgrazing. Once he had firm contracts to supply meat to the railroads to feed the men laying the tracks, he’d branch out into other endeavors. Like selling cleaned wool for spinning into cloth. His highland sheep possessed the warmest wool of all, and there was no reason he couldn’t show these Westerners how many ways they could use it.

            Just as he had about decided to stop for the night, whistling for the dogs to pull the sheep closer to the wagon so he could set up the temporary corral he’d designed and built to keep them close, he saw something tan flapping in the distance. Using his long view glass, he adjusted the eye piece until he saw a wagon with its cover torn loose. No horse, no oxen, no one moving came to his vision, despite the long hard look he gave the situation. Something was wrong, and aye, he knew instantly he’d have to find out what.

            Setting up the corral and ordering the dogs to keep the sheep within its confines, he decided he’d walk to the abandoned wagon. If he didn’t come back, the sheep would eventually break free and scatter, but the oxen would have to wait to be rescued if he didn’t unhitch them, so he did. They, too, he tied loosely to their stakes, knowing if they were hungry enough, they’d work themselves loose. Pulling the rifle from its hiding place under the wagon seat, he propped it over his shoulder and began the long march to heaven-knew-what.

            He’d heard tales, of course. Stories about the atrocities committed by the natives against the encroaching white men. Honestly, he couldn’t blame them. As a Scotsman, he still hated the presence of the English on Scottish land. The battle cries of Culloden would never be forgotten. Still, he’d be cautious in his approach – he’d been warned that the Indians were particularly good at traps. Having set some himself, he knew a bit about keeping out of them.

            The canvas cover wasn’t just loosed from its tie-downs. The fabric had been shredded, the wagon itself covered with arrows and some bullet holes. Running his hand along the wagon’s sides, he felt how loose the boards were and wondered if it was the result of a roll-over or just bad craftsmanship. He knew he was procrastinating. Whatever was in the wagon bed, it was attracting the carrion birds circling above, so it must have been a recent kill. The hairs along his arms curled, and the tingle down the back of his neck had him holding his breath as he shouldered the rifle. He only hoped whatever was in the wagon was already dead, so he didn’t have to fire a mercy bullet. Putting down a suffering animal was one thing, a human being, another.

            The red-haired woman lay prone, her nightgown rucked up, her swollen belly cut open. She must have been very pregnant. The man curled at her feet had lost the top of his head to a scalp knife and his throat to the same thing. The blood dripping through the bottom of the wagon made a faint splash as it struck the ground. Bile swirled in the back of his throat, and he had to fight the vomit that wanted to come up. He’d seen plenty of death, being raised on a farm. But nothing like this. He would never forget the woman’s face, the blankness in her eyes, her slack mouth silenced in mid-scream. 

            Crossing himself, Mark added a few curses to the short prayer he muttered for their poor souls. He’d have to make camp so he could bury the couple, and here he was, right in the open where he was a target should the Indians decide to make a return foray. 

            “Hellfire and damnation,” he almost shouted. But there was no avoiding it, he’d have to move his team and sheep closer. At least he had the dogs for a warning. 

            He was turning to retrieve his wagon when he heard a soft cry, like a tiny kitten. Wouldn’t it be like these dead souls to have a cat instead of a dog to give the hue and cry when danger lurked? 

            “Here, kitty, kitty,” he crooned, loathe to leave any living thing that had survived this brutal killing. He didn’t want to think about what had happened to the baby. It had probably ended up as dead as its parents, hopefully, quickly. 

            “Come out, kitty,” he soothed. “I won’t let the sheep eat ya.” Kneeling, he peeked under the wagon, hoping to un-see the dripping blood but knowing it was impossible.

            The next sound froze him in place. 

            “Mama,” came the soft cry. “Mama.”

            Holy mother of God, Mark prayed, let me be hearing things. This couldn’t be. Squinting, he pulled his hat from his head so he could wiggle farther under the wagon. “Anyone here?”

            He hoped he received no reply. “Anyone? Child, are ya hurt?”

            “Mama!” came the cry again, this time stronger. Reaching under the wagon bed, Mark inched his fingers around the area. The latch wasn’t far from the edge. A wooden peg, it slid into the bed until it was almost flush. A good way to hide valuables. Working it loose with his fingernails, he hit his head as the bottom dropped out with a child following after. A small, red-headed child with a white, tear-streaked face and a blood-soaked dress, she lay on the ground, so still he thought she must have died after her last breath calling for her mother.

            “Wee one,” he tried to sound gentle but the words came out as a growl. He knew how to handle a young child, his baby sister had been born when he was thirteen. “Child, do ya live?”

            Her eyes fluttered open, her mouth gasped for air, and she let loose with a wail that would have awakened the dead. “Mama! Want mama!”

            Scooping her into his arms, he gave up all noble ideas of burying the dead and reading from his Bible over them. He had to get out of there, and fast. If the Indians were anywhere close by, they’d hear her screams from this dreadful place to kingdom come. 

            “Hush!” he whispered in her ear, running as fast as he could for his wagon. His oxen weren’t swift, and there was no way he could outrun men on horses. But he could kill a few if he could get this child inside the wagon and quiet. Of course, he knew better. No toddler would stay quiet when she absolutely had to. He figured she’d been scared into silence by her parents’ screams, until he’d spoken aloud. Speed was his only recourse.

            Wrapping her in a quilt made by one of his five sisters, he settled her quickly in a corner of the wagon. Her big blue eyes followed his every move. He saw her throat working as she tried to swallow. From the look of the tears soaking her face and the top of her dress, she’d cried enough to wring every last drop of liquid out of her body. 

            “Here,” he offered his canteen, holding it to her baby lips. “Drink.” 

            She took a tiny bit, spit it out, and proceeded to wail as if he were hitting her.

            “Dogs!” He hadn’t time for this. She’d die if he couldn’t get them to safety. “Dogs, alert!” he commanded.

            Leaving the child, he dismantled the corral, grabbed the youngest ewes and tossed the into the wagon with the girl. Snapping the reins and the long whip he didn’t like to use, he roused the oxen to lumber faster than they liked. He wasn’t a man who hurried things, and they’d gotten accustomed to his fair and easy ways. Disliking this new driver, they snorted and stomped, but they picked up the pace.

            Far, too far, in the distance, Mark’s refuge beckoned. The mountains. He’d have a fair fight if he could reach the mountains. Having done it all his life, he understood how to use terrain to his advantage. The enemy was new, its ways brutal and incomprehensible to him, but he’d keep this child alive as long as he had breath in his body. With red hair like her mother’s, the little girl was born to be a fighter. That, he respected. Besides, his youngest sister, Ella, had had the same red hair.

            God had placed him here, at this place and at this time, to keep the child safe. Many years had passed since he was responsible for more than the barley crop and his sheep. Even his sisters didn’t need him any longer. Glancing in the wagon, he saw her face, wrapped in the quilt, marred with tears and dirt, slack in sleep. 

            Yes, he’d keep her. He’d raise her. He’d be her da. With five sisters, he knew a bit about raising a young girl child. As twilight fell and he had to stop the wagon, he was already planning on naming her Ella. Maybe Ruella, to keep her distinct from his sister. Ru because she might come to rue the day she was born. 

            Ella had. Not this Ella, though. If God had set her in his path, surely, He would guide her on a steady and worthy life. He figured he had about fifteen years to make sure.

            Mark McQuaid, middle aged sheep farmer from Scotland, a solitary man with few wants but big dreams, added one more item to his list and checked it off. This child gave him a reason to succeed. Someone to inherit what he was going to build for her future.

            Camp made, oatmeal cooking over the small flame, he fed the dogs and oxen, then shook the toddler awake. “Hungry?” he asked before he lifted her down to sit beside the fire. 

            She grabbed the porridge bowl from his hands and dug in with both fists, eating so quickly she spilled half down the quilt. Laughing, he sent a silent prayer of gratitude to the heavens above. She’d live. One day, he’d tell her about her parents, but by then, she’d be more McQuaid than he was. He felt it in his bones.

            The dogs curled around her to sleep that night, sensing her need for both heat and protection. Leaning against a wheel, he cradled his rifle in his arms and listened in the blackness that was this strange and lonely land for an enemy he could not see. Stars crowded the sky as they did in the highlands. Glancing up, he wondered if this land would ever feel like home.

 Didn’t matter. For the third time in his life, he had someone else to protect, to live for, to succeed for. He hadn’t been able to save his sister or his wife, but by damned, he’d saved Ruella McQuaid.

New Book!!

At long last, OUT OF NOWHERE is up on Amazon as an ebook! It’s been a long journey for this book, but I always had faith in my heroine to get it right. The story begins with a young woman, just 17, stopping to gas up her vintage Corvette in a small town gas station. A boy in a mom van beside her moons her, and she’s just looking away when she hears a familiar sound. Instantly, she knows someone is shooting at the van, and she dives to protect the boy. But he’s dead before she can grab him.

With her Corvette impounded because it too was struck by bullets, she’s stranded in this town so small she can’t hide anywhere. A young man, related to the town’s sheriff, volunteers to take her home to his mother. But that’s more dangerous than facing a gunman - she can’t get attached to anyone anywhere. Everyone she has ever loved has died - including all her high school math classmates when a killer strode Into her high school and started shooting. She’s spent a year in rehab and wandering around in the Corvette she restored as part of her therapy, moving on without any desire to stick to one place or person.

The classroom killer has a mission - he must take out the one survivor of his last massacre. Finding the girl is his life’s mission, and he won’t quit until he finds her. Will she run, or will she stay and fight? And at what cost to the people who have sworn to protect her?

Halloween 2020 annual story

Nothing Lost

Halloween 2020

Billie Josephine Bellinger unlocked the door to her thrift/design store, Made for You, with a smile on her heart-shaped face and holes in the knees of her faded jeans. On her feet she wore scuffed classic cowboy boots, her blouse was a flowing lace salvaged from an old prom dress, and colorful glass beads from the twenties swung from her neck. She’d carefully curated everything she wore herself, knowing her customers would scrutinize her from top to bottom before they bought the clothes right off her back.

            A grandmother with a pedal-foot Singer sewing machine had taught her to sew. After a childhood of fashioning doll dresses from scraps in her grandmother’s rag-bag, an adolescence focused on wearing what no one else wore, and an art degree that sealed the deal, Billie Jo decided she was a fashion designer. And a good one, at that. Unfortunately, the rest of the world had yet to recognize her stardom.

            Not one to be discouraged, Billie Jo decided she’d remake Glory Springs, Virginia, her hometown, leaning between Virginia and the North Carolina border, in the image she wanted to see, one girl, one woman, one dog at a time. The dog was literal, not a snarky comment. The good ladies of Glory Springs liked their dogs to match their outfits, and Billie Jo was only too happy to oblige. Opening the thrift store was her first step, one taken of necessity, since fabric was expensive and trim even more so. With her trusty seam-ripper and pinking shears, she could pull apart  Salvation Army clothing made of linen and wool, cotton and silk, and refashion most of it into something no one could buy for any price in the fancy department stores in Raleigh or Richmond. The ladies of Glory Springs rejoiced, especially since the prices Billie Jo set fit their budgets. Sunday mornings in the Baptist and Methodist churches were often Billie Jo fashion shows. The older ladies and gentlemen, mostly Presbyterians, liked to purchase the well-made clothing she didn’t turn into something else. Most of it would be classified as vintage, but Billie Jo thought of it as simple timeless good taste.

            Billie Jo had no sooner stashed her hobo bag under the front counter and checked the thermostat when the old cow bell on the front door clanged. Sailing inside was Mary Carter Willingham, her large frame supported by bright red Converse sneakers.

            “Morning, Mary Carter,” Billie Jo smiled, pleased to see her favorite customer was wearing the shoes she’d found for her. “How’re your feet doing today?”

            “Finer than my dahlias, that’s for sure. Dr. James said to say thank-you. He says my feet are going to make it a while longer, thanks to you.”

            “I’m sure pleased to hear that.” Plugging in the iPad she used to swipe credit cards, Billie Jo gave Mary Carter another glance. “What in God’s Green Earth happened to that dress I made you? I swear, it stretched or you’ve lost weight.”

            Mary Carter beamed. “Now I can walk more, I’m doing it. Got my little fanny marching down to the river and back twice a day. Wondered if you have anything for the new me to wear?”

            Grinning, Billie Jo glanced at the rack of made-overs she’d created, then at the side of the store reserved for the thrifts. “Why don’t you take a look? If something takes your fancy and needs altering, give me a holler. I’ll be in the back room, going through the new stuff.”

            She’d spent her weekend, while the store was covered by her best friend, Althea Wright, in Richmond, hitting the yard sales. Her stock had been getting low, and she needed new fabrics for her next set of designs.

            “Thank you, dear.” Mary Carter was Billie Jo’s mother’s age, and always treated the younger woman like a daughter. Most of the women in Glory Springs did. A motherless girl was the responsibility of the female community, and they took their job seriously. Fortunately for Billie Jo, she didn’t mind all the smothering mothering. In fact, she liked it. She always knew Glory Springs had her back.

            She’d dropped off her weekend haul when she returned home Sunday night. Her main shopping took place on Saturdays, and often she would sweep up any and everything that homeowners were ready to shove in the street after a long day of yard sale-ing. More than half her stash would end up in the recycle boxes she kept at the ready, but now and then, she’d find a first edition of a classic or a piece of exquisite Rosenthal china that she could sell online. She had a feeling her most recent haul was going to go onto her website rather than her sewing room. 

            But one item in particular had caught her eye, and she couldn’t wait to give it a good going-over. She’s paid an exorbitant amount of money for it, thirty dollars. Despite the maker’s label being missing, she’d found the fiber content inside the wedding dress, and sure enough, it was silk. Gorgeous silk. And from the looks of it, never worn. Even though it was hopelessly out of style, probably from the sixties or early seventies, there were brides in big cities who would kill for a vintage wedding gown. Unfolding the yards of train and holding the dress up to the window in her back room, Billie Jo gave it a more thorough going-over.

            The lace sleeves and neck insert had yellowed some, and the fabric was crushed from being jammed in a box over the years. But all the buttons were intact, and despite her eagle-eyed review of every inch, she couldn’t find a single wine or grass stain anywhere. Her first impression solidified. This wedding dress had never been worn, she’d bet her life on it.

            Not hearing anything from Mary Carter, she set up her ironing board and prepared to see if she could remove the wrinkles herself. Usually she had good luck with silk, but this dress’s fabric seemed unusually delicate. If she could get it looking like it should, she’d continue the dress’s restoration with the lace. Spreading a clean sheet on the floor around the ironing board, Billie Jo slid the first side seam onto the padded surface. She kept her best iron and pressing cloth for the delicate fabrics, so while she waited for the iron to heat up, she did a finger-press along the seam to test its resilience.

No stitches pulled apart, which was a good sign. Slipping the gown farther down the board, she continued her inspection, still studying the silk for any imperfections. She was feeling pretty pleased with her purchase until she hit a bump, too big to be a tangle of thread. Besides, this dress had been made by a master dressmaker. Everything about it screamed first class.

            Flipping the gown inside-out, Billie Jo discovered a bulge in the side seam than had been inserted deliberately. Perhaps the bride had wanted a memento that she would never lose, and this had been the best spot to save it. Her heart beating a little faster, Billie Jo found her seam ripper and started plucking threads from around the bulge. What had this bride wanted to stay with her wedding gown forever?

            Wrapped tightly in a piece of silk that matched the dress, a small, round object emerged. Sewn shut, it was clearly intended to stay where it had been. Picking the stitches apart, Billie Jo stared at the blue ribbon and medal, with silver stars scattered on the points, that fell into her hand. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be what she thought it was. No way. 

            Because she’d seen an identical medal before. Often. Framed in a shadow box in her grandmother’s bedroom, it rested beside another medal with an eagle hanging from a red ribbon. The Soldier’s Medal for Valor. Thirteen silver stars adorned the blue ribbon attached to the medal in her hand. The medal in her hand matched one of the two framed at home, in her grandmother’s room.

            Someone had chosen a Medal of Honor for her “something blue” in her wedding gown. For a second, Billie Jo wondered how her father’s medal had ended up in this stranger’s wedding dress. Holding it closer to the lamp beside the ironing board, Billie Jo tried to read the name on the back of the medal, but she couldn’t quite make it out. One thing was for sure, her father’s medal was still in her grandmother’s bedroom. Billie Jo hadn’t changed a single thing in there after her Grammie’s passing. 

            “Yoo hoo!” Mary Carter trilled from the shop. “Found something, tell me what you think, Billie Jo!”

            Wiping her eyes and slipping the medal in her jeans pocket, Billie Jo left the dress behind in her workroom. She’d think about the medal later, when she had more time.

As soon as Mary Carter Willingham had picked out her eighties style Shrader dress and departed happier than a clam, Billie sat on the red velvet loveseat in the middle of the store. Normally, mothers of the bride sat there while their glowing daughters paraded around in Billie’s wedding dress creations. Pulling it from her pocket, she squinted at the back of the MOH. “Burwell Betts,” she read, then whistled. “That’s a name and a half. Wonder where he is now?”

Unable to leave the wedding dress alone, Billie Jo once more retired to her workroom. Hanging the dress up, Billie tried to concentrate on what to do with it. Forcing herself to focus, she decided to cut off the lace upper bodice and try to clean it separately. If it didn’t work out, she’d cut a new one and replace the old lace. If she managed to restore the lace, she’d sew the bodice back on. Her scissors in hand, she started removing the stitching keeping the two pieces together. As the bodice began separating, Billie had to stop to brush the tears from her eyes. Why was she being so silly? This discovery meant nothing to her. She was just the finder. Period.

Burwell Betts sounded like a local name. Surely there were some Betts still around Glory Springs? She’d have to ask around, see if anyone knew who should have the MOH back. Or she could research online, she thought. Pulling out her iPad, she turned it on.

 How many times had Billie studied the site she pulled up, hoping to gain a deeper understanding of the man who served six tours of duty in Afghanistan, until his luck ran out. Her grandmother had said little about him, mostly anecdotes about his boyhood. She never said a word about her father and mother together. All she knew of her mother, she’d learned in a few sentences from her Grammie. “She never recovered from your father’s death. Don’t understand women from California.” Billie Jo knew her grandmother considered anyone from out West to be an alien creature, past all understanding. “Why your father married her so quick is easy to figure out. You were on the way.” Grammie had sighed. “Guess some women just don’t have the gumption to keep going, even if there’s a little one depending on her.” 

All Billie Jo knew was that her Grammie took her in and raised her. So she never pushed for more information about her mother, until one day, it was too late. Grammie was gone.

            Pulling up the site, Billie ran her finger down the list of MOH names. “Oh my goodness,” she breathed. “Here he is. He was awarded the medal for heroism in Vietnam. 1963. He died holding off the Viet Cong so the wounded could be airlifted off the battlefield, and stayed alone on the ground to continue firing as the helicopter took off. I’m paraphrasing here.” Tears filled Billie’s eyes. “Like my dad.”

            Billie Jo glanced at the silk gown with lace hanging from its bodice. “I wonder if she remarried and carried the medal with her down the aisle. Or if this was the dress she wore when she married him, and she put the medal in it after he died.” Billie Jo sighed. She had to find the medal’s owner, or his heirs. If this had been her father’s MOH, she’d have cherished it.

            She just hoped someone out there cared as much about that Medal of Honor as she did.       Another customer came through the front door, the bell barely registering his presence. “Hey there, Billie Jo. Looking for a work jacket, the older, the better. Got any?”

            Rising to help the older gentleman, Billie steered him back to men’s jackets. “See if there’s anything you like, Mr. Moore, and I’ll help you get it on. Still cleaning out that old barn? Must be filled to the rafters, you’ve been at it so long.”

            “Oh, my, yes,” he replied in his soft, wavering voice. “Can’t hardly stand to haul it to the dump. Some mighty good stuff in there.” With a smile, he shuffled to the rack. 

            Billie Jo shook her head, knowing he’d be lost if  he ever finished the job.

            Billie Jo tapped the iPad’s keyboard as Mr. Moore continued to browse. She was finding only a handful of Betts in Richmond, so she expanded the search to Charlottesville and Hampton. Surely, she’d find some relation. This was the South, after all, and everyone was related somehow.

            By the time Mr. Moore found what he wanted, Billie Jo was ready to give up. Her only hope was her best friend, Thea. She’d call Thea as soon as she closed up for the night, and pick her brain for any other way to track down the medal’s owner.

            Tucking the MOH in her pocket, she waved Mr. Moore good-bye, and headed into her back workroom to go through more of her weekend purchases.  A few more customers interrupted her, all her older ones, stopped by to browse her newest wares. As always, they greeted her profusely, with a few giving her extra hugs. She’d known most of them all her life. She called Thea and left a message on her phone, then set about trying to get some work done. More customers, always welcome, interrupted her more than usual, but she enjoyed them. Still, today seemed to be filled with elders out shopping. A veritable parade of people with walkers and canes. It was as if they were looking for purchases with a heavy dose of nostalgia, from an old toaster to a Harris tweed coat that had been stylish forty years ago. Billie loved each and every piece of merchandise, having discovered their histories and cleaned them up until they looked as good as new, and it seemed as if they were flying out of her store today. She seriously began to wonder if she’d have enough merchandise to keep the shop going until her next weekend yard sale foray.

The day was almost over when her phone rang. Not recognizing the caller ID, Billie almost didn’t answer it. But by the third ring, she figured she may as well. 

“Billie Jo’s Creations,” she answered in her most professional voice.

            “Is this Billie J. Bellinger? You bought a wedding dress at my yard sale last Saturday?” The voice was young, and very, very anxious. “I found your check, and thank goodness you have your number on it, because I am so sorry, but I need it back. The dress, not the check. I’ll give you the check, of course.” The caller sucked in a ragged breath. “I thought I’d already deposited the check, but it had fallen out on the floor of my car, and that’s why it’s taken me so long to call, and can I come pick up the dress, please?”

            “Whoa,” Billie cut in. “I paid cash. You must have the wrong person.” She didn’t remember any young woman at the sale. The house contents were being sold as part of an estate. “Tell me what’s really going on and how you got my name and cell number.”

            “You don’t understand. I have to get that dress back. My sister’s wearing it this weekend.”

            Billie could hear the start of tears. “I don’t see how. It’s horribly wrinkled and the lace is yellowed. Now why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?” It had to be the MOH, but the caller didn’t want to say so. Knowing there was a market for medals, Billie was betting this MOH was worth more than she’d paid for the dress. “Does it have to do with the medal sewn in the seam?”

            “Oh God,” the woman moaned. “You found it.”

            “Of course. I was trying to press the seams.” Billie waited for an explanation, but the caller was so silent, she wondered if she was still on. “Look, I’m open until 6 tonight, why don’t you come on in, tell me the story of the medal, and I’ll see about returning it.” It would all depend on what the woman said. The MOH belonged with recipient or his family, and she was going to make it happen, no matter what. She knew what it meant to family, more than the caller would ever know. There was a click as the woman hung up without saying yes or no, or by your leave.

            By the time six o’clock rolled around, she called Thea again to urge her to get over to the shop, and not reaching her, began to get nervous. She decided she’d keep the MOH out of sight until she was convinced the woman had a legitimate claim on it. Just as she checked the parking lot once more to see anyone was pulling into a space, she began to wonder if she’d dreamed the call in the first place. Then it was 6:30, well past the time Billie had agreed to meet the nameless woman. 

            The first inkling she had that something was really, awfully, horribly wrong was when Thea burst through the shop doors, threw herself on the loveseat, and started bawling like she’d just lost her parents, her siblings, and her best friend in a disaster. Running from the workroom, Billie locked the front door, then knelt in front of Thea.

            “For heaven’s sake, what’s wrong? Take a breath, sweetie, and tell me. It can’t be that bad, can it?” Patting Thea’s hands, then her shoulder, then her back as she sat beside her friend, Billie had no luck in stopping the flow of tears.

            Just then, a knock rattled the glass front door. Flipping on the outside lights, Billie was shocked to see a young blonde woman, her face streaked with tears, and a young man in army fatigues standing beside her. 

            “I’ve come for my wedding dress. My sister called you this afternoon. She shouldn’t have sold it, it was huge mistake. I’ve got your money, you can have it back,” she shouted through the door.

            God have mercy, Billie thought, turning back to see that Thea was still sobbing, though she’d shoved her fist in her mouth to stop the awful sounds she’d been making.

            “This isn’t a good time, I’m sorry.” Billie started to turn off the outside lights, when she felt as if a hand covered hers and stopped the motion. Turning, she saw no one with her except Thea.  Checking the couple outside her shop, she was startled to see a gathering of people.

            Night had fallen earlier and earlier this month, yet Billie was surprised to see the parking lot lights were already lit and that the lot was almost empty of cars, except for the people milling about. Some she recognized, others felt familiar. Glancing back at Thea, she called her to come see what was going on, but Thea acted as if she couldn’t hear her.

            The young blonde and the soldier stood right in front of her door, their hands clasped, as some of the people in the parking lot gathered closer behind them.

            “Billie Jo,” called Mary Carter Willingham, “let them in, please. It’s the right thing to do.”

            Startled, Billie almost unlocked the door, just to let Mary Carter inside, but Thea beat her to it. It felt as if an ice cube passed through her as Thea turned the key and then the handle. The door swung open.

            “What are you doing?” demanded Billie. 

            “The wedding’s tomorrow, she has to have the dress.” Mary Carter sighed. Thea didn’t even look at Billie Jo. 

            “I’m not sure what’s going on here,” Billie whispered more to herself than Thea. “But as far as I’m concerned, the sooner they leave, the better.”

            Marching for the workroom, Billie grabbed the two parts of the dress she’d just separated and stuffed them back in the box that had held the gown originally. Tossing the MOH in after the dress, she hauled it to the front of the shop. The blonde woman’s face, mascara smeared, lipstick long gone, gave Billie a smile that lit up the dark shop. 

            “I can’t thank you enough!” Grabbing the soldier’s hand, she raced out the door with the box under one arm. 

            “Thank you, Billie Jo.” Mary Carter beamed. “They’ve been waiting a very long time to get hitched.”

            Billie couldn’t see where the couple had gone, the crowd outside had swelled to such a large proportion. “What do you mean, a long time?”

            Mary Carter glanced at the other people around her. A few nodded at her, others shrugged. Recognizing more and more of her clients, Billie wondered what the hell was going on.

            “Since Lt. Betts was killed in Vietnam. Regina had to wait to cross over to find him, and then her sister sold you her wedding dress, just when they were finally ready to get hitched.”

            Mary Carter was making no sense. “What in tarnation are you saying, Mary Carter? Those people were ghosts?”

            Slowly, the crowd around Mary Carter became clearer, the faces more distinct.  Recognizing her grandmother among them, she jumped back from the doorway, falling on her tail. Shutting her eyes, she counted to ten, then opened them again. 

            “Grammie?” she whispered. 

            “It’s me, sugar pie. Now get up, we’ve got to get going. Take my hand, it doesn’t hurt, I promise.” Her eyes twinkled as if she were about to hand Billie a big box wrapped with shiny paper and red ribbon.

            “Thea!” Rising to her feet, Billie tried to scramble to her friend, still crying beside the loveseat.

            “Sweetie, she can’t hear you. Now come on, everyone’s waiting to meet you. Your dad is back here somewhere, and your mama.”

            “How can this be? I’m alive. This has to be a dream. Or I’m really sick.” Touching her hand to her face, Billie encountered warm flesh.

            “No one ever really dies, honey child. That’s the truth. You haven’t lived in this human realm for a long time. That’s why you’ve been able to see all of us who came to your shop. Thea just got the news that you finally gave up and came to us, that’s why she’s weeping. Poor girl, she thinks you’re dead after all these years in a coma. She’ll learn the truth, one of these days.”

            Trying to wrap her mind around what her Grammie was saying, she reached for Thea’s hand and stroked it. She could feel Thea, which meant she was alive, didn’t it? But Thea’s lack of any reaction scared her. “Thea, it’s me. It’s okay. I’m fine,” Billie whispered directly into Thea’s ear.

            With a start, Thea’s tears ceased. Lifting her head, she tilted it as if listening. “That you, Billie Jo? Oh Billie,” she gasped, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I knew today was coming for a long time. I hoped and prayed for you to come out of the coma after the car wreck. Everyone was praying. Why did you give up?”

            Suddenly, Billie Jo knew everything her grandmother had said was true. She vaguely remembered the ambulance, the needles, the machines forcing her to breathe. For a second, she wondered what had happened to her, but it didn’t really matter. Her Grammie had been with her the whole time, she knew that for a fact. The body in the hospital bed hadn’t been her. Her shop, her designs, her yard sale shopping, had all happened on another plane of existence. One where she was happy, busy, and still Thea’s best friend. Finding the Medal of Honor had triggered memories of her dead father, however, and those memories had shifted the paradigm. There was no other explanation.

            “I didn’t give up,” she whispered to Thea. “I guess it was just time. Time for that wedding dress to get used by the woman who waited, time for me to start my new life. I’ll always be here for you. Don’t hurry, enjoy your life. I have loved mine. But Grammie and the others are waiting. Gotta jet, you know how it is.” With a brush of a kiss on Thea’s head, Billie went to meet her grandmother, waiting in the doorway. She returned her Grammie’s gentle smile with one of her own. How good it was to see, to talk with her once more. 

            “Step through, honey. It’s easy.” Grammie held out her hand, and taking it, Billie felt warmth and love washing over her. “That’s my girl.”

            Without a backward look, Billie stepped into her future.

What we leave behind

I have been listening to birds twittering, chirping, screaming, and generally getting noisy now that the windows in the house are open to let in some non-humid air. I’m really tired of air conditioning. Every morning the two bird feeders in the back yard are jammed with noisy feathered critters, and recently, I’ve been paying attention to the noises they make.

The birds remind me of different places. I don’t know the names of the birds with specific sounds, but one of them sounds exactly like birds at the grandmothers’ houses - one in Georgia, one in Virginia. Every time I hear its noisy little self, I’m transported back in time to different places. I wonder how long this aural memory has been with me, and I’m finally paying attention.

I’ve also been wondering what I’ll leave behind of any significance. My books, sure, but they’re not so important or specific to each person in my life. They are their own creations. What I have made for a specific person is what I remember. My extra closet is hung with childhood dresses my grandmother made for my mother, my mother for me, and me, for my children. I remember cross-stitching baby outfits and adding embroidered roses to others. There they hang, patiently waiting for me to take a peek at them now and then, and remember who wore them, and where, and why they were mama-made. The women in my family are sewers. It’s what we leave behind.

Bird calls and smocked dresses. What a treasure.

Futurists

I’m not even sure I’m spelling that word correctly. I’ve been fascinated with the concept ever since I heard there was a college degree in the study of the future. People who think big picture, many years into the future, who get jobs doing that - how cool! The concept was brought home to me again recently because of comment made by the remarkably dumb (sorry, that’s the only word I can use that’s socially acceptable) Betsy DeVos, Secretary of Education. To quote her dumbness:

“You can’t plan for something that hasn’t happened.”

Well, yeah, you can. Don’t we all plan ahead to pay our taxes? To change the oil in our car before the engine seizes up? I could go on and on, but you get the point. Thinking ahead to make plans is called being an adult.

I’ve been reading some post - apocalyptic fiction recently. Nora Roberts and Justin Cronin have shoved me into thinking about “what if?” While I’m a pretty detail oriented person, the sheer magnitude of prepping for the end of the world as we know it is pretty daunting. Food, I can do. Bedding, fuel source, grills, creature comforts are all in my wheelhouse. What I’m stumped by is: how do you decide what kind future society will evolve? Personally, I’d like to live with people who share, are kind to others, and who work hard. Utopia, in other words.

Based on my reading, I have a lot of work to do. Life as we knew it is over, I fear. This Covid 19 will be with us a long time, and we had better plan for a future we never expected. I’m going to start making lists - my forte. Future, here I come!

The West Wing

My husband and I have started re-watching old episodes of the TV series, The West Wing. Aaron Sorkin brought a depth and insight into politics I’d seen only in The Candidate, a movie staring Robert Redford, In the seventies. I went to see it with my beloved great-uncle, a long time D.C. resident, and we both came out at the end from the theater going “wow.”

I know why we’re watching this old show - it is so refreshing to see people, even fictional characters, trying, and often succeeding, in doing the right thing. Humanity and empathy are never in short supply in this imaginary White House. The common goal is the betterment of life for the American people. Each character cares deeply about seeing the greater good succeed. I need this at this time in our nation’s descent into chaos, hatred for others, and isolationism.

Particularly today - when John Lewis is lauded at his funeral in Atlanta before being laid to rest. His goodness is a badge of honor no one can tarnish. In admonishing us to make “good trouble” he has let us know he’ll be watching from above and cheering us on. Good Trouble, indeed. If only we had more people like him, so willing to lay it all on the line for the common good.

Good Byes we never get to say

Perhaps it’s the Pandemic and the daily deaths that have me thinking of the End. As in, yikes, you mean it’s over? But wait, I’m not ready! A few more years, and I’ll be good….

I recently found out about high school friends who have passed away much too young. I was particularly saddened by the death of a boy who was a great friend, a lot of fun, and terribly shy at the same time. I’d wanted him to ask me to the prom in the world’s worst way, but he never did. I went with someone else. His name, I don’t remember. But I remember Rob Shields.

Many years (and I mean eons!) later we connected through a new Facebook group for my high school. (Which was overseas and no longer exists as a DoD school.) I called, we chatted, and he sounded just the same. He was still working in DC at the time, but soon after retired to live in Central America and raise horses and dogs, as I recall. I told him about my little family, my great husband, my shift in career from lawyer to writer, and it was as if we’d been chatting every day for all those years. Still friends.

Another member of the class below us told me, when I called to give him an update on Rob for the school’s next reunion, that he was gay. I have no idea why he told me that, but it answered a lot of questions I’d always had. How could such a great guy have not been interested in me as a sixteen year old? I mean, sheesh, I was at my hottest! It’s been downhill ever since, LOL. Not too much later, Rob died. From pneumonia, but really, it was AIDS.

Damn,damn, and double damn. How I wished I’d kept in contact after that one phone call. Just to remind him (and me) of when we were young and naive. I just today saw a picture of the older Rob, and saw in those eyes the boy he’d been, the one who made me feel as if I could survive the awful high school into which I’d been thrown, my third school in two years.

He was always kind to me, and to everyone else. I wish I’d told him how grateful I was.

Trying Times

Like most of us, I’ve been sunk into a morass of despair at the recent deaths of black men and women at the hands of those with guns and badges. I’ve done what I can to support change (writing to the Virginia State Bar fell on deaf ears), and will continue to do so. In the midst of this cleaning-out of society’s ills and injustice, I’ve found solace in tackling a clear-out of my own. I don’t mean this to sound glib - it seems to be the only way I can handle the unrest in my own soul without going over the edge and into the deep. No closet or drawer is safe from my trash can. Even books - heaven forbid - are on the chopping block.

Tossing the excess from my life is going to take time - I realize that. In the meanwhile, I’m labeling old photos so my children will know the names of their images, and soon, I’ll write my memories of those folks. Some pictures I swear I’ve never seen before, but I know who is in them. Relatives I knew as white-haired and bent live as young people, smiling into the future, in these photos. It’s like revisiting old friends and hearing about their lives before you met. I’ve even dug up old, unpublished manuscripts. They too, feel like old friends I’ve forgotten.

This project will take time. Like changing society, when you have the collective will, it will happen. Change in the right direction can’t be stopped, whether it’s decluttering a drawer or ensuring black lives matter. I know they’re not equivalents - but my small changes and efforts towards both are the best I can do right now. I’m ready, however, for the big stuff. Bring it on.

Halloween Story 2019

Here it is! It’s more fable than story….

Swan Pillows 

Halloween 2019

Zella sold pillows. A simple housewife in a small village in the mountains, she’d lived with her family in the cozy cottage beside the swan pen since she was a child.  Swans had provided down for mattresses, linings for warm winter coats, and food for the family for generations. The pillows, though, were Zella’s idea. Sewn from the finest linen, woven by herself, she filled them with the softest down harvested from her own swans. Not only were they beautiful, but each one was embroidered in the most intricate, colorful design. No two pillows were alike. As Zella stitched each one, Zella thought about the dreams that the pillow would give the sleeper. Happy thoughts, always. The swan down seemed to absorb Zella’s requests, and adding an extra layer of warmth, held the secrets Zella gave it with an amazing ability. 

Zella never questioned this. For generations, the swans had had the ability to grant wishes, but no one knew this but the women in her family. And Zella was the last one.

            Sometimes, a client requested a specific dream. Not sure about the ethics of fulfilling such a client request, she decided that if the dreams were to produce a harmless result, it would be within her power to do so. Experimenting upon herself and her family members, she quickly perfected her new craft, and joy and happiness were soon discarded as too vague a dream request. If the client didn’t know what she wanted, for only women found their way to Zella’s door set far down a country lane, Zella suggested she return when she knew. Each day she harvested more and more down from the swans until they grew bloody and tried to bite her when she appeared in the swan house with her basket. 
            She always put them in their place with a single glance.

            For Zella’s powers were growing. The housewife who needed her son to stop his wild ways would receive a pillow for his bed that taught him, through dreams, that he should travel the path his parents chose for him or the consequences would be dire. Another woman desired her husband to leave his mistress, and sure enough, she’d have her husband’s love back within a fortnight. Zella’s reputation grew among the women of her county, and soon spread, through whispers and little notes sent to relatives, to surrounding counties and ultimately, to the entire kingdom.

            She didn’t know how she did it exactly. She’d always had a knack with a needle and thread, and her swans were well fed and graceful, even though angry at all the loss of their down. Her weaving was exemplary, but the other part of her magic grew without her examining its source too carefully. To her husband, when he asked about her growing business, she explained that it was a gift from God. Since she tithed regularly and well, her priest was happy to say nothing to her in the confessional about the success of her pillow business. In fact, it never occurred to him that something rather unchristian was going on in his parish. 

            Zella’s clients were uniformly happy with their pillows. Even those who’d bought the older models weren’t complaining, for harmony and joy were generally the rule in their households. What more could a housewife ask for?

            Until one did. Of course, she was a younger woman married to an older man who had already buried two wives. With long black hair and deep blue eyes, she looked like a prize for any man. Her husband certainly thought she was. Yet after two years of marriage, she had failed to conceive. Then she discovered her husband using means to prevent her from doing so. At first, she was hurt, which quickly became anger, for she wanted a child more than anything.

            “Who will be my companion, my rock, when you die, my husband?” she demanded. “You are much older than I, and I will not be left a childless widow.”

            “You will if you wish to stay my wife,” her grey-bearded husband barked.

            And that was the end of the conversation. For she loved her rich apartments in his castle, and the servants who kept her from wifely drudgery, and the beautiful silks he brought home from his travels for her to make into stunning garments. Leaving him was out of the question, and she never really thought he would leave her, no matter what. For he was besotted with her, and she made sure he stayed that way.

            She never breathed a word about a child to her small circle of friends. When her mother was visiting one day, she saw her daughter was unhappy and asked its source.

            Never one to keep anything from her mother, she sighed. “My husband does not desire any children. He says he will never give me my heart’s truest wish. All he has put in my hands from his wealth is fine, but I want a child more than any silks or perfumes or jewels.” Then she began to weep.

            “Stop that, you silly girl. There are ways,” her mother soothed.

            “He says he will discard me if I become with child. Besides, he controls our beddings so I cannot conceive.”

            “So, he must be made to believe he wants a child. That is the only way. Men can be so pig-headed. But I know just the woman to see to make him change his mind.”

            With that, her mother whispered the name of the pillow-maker into her daughter’s ear and told her how to find her cottage. “I have used her pillows for years and they have never failed. In fact, I asked for dreams to give me a beautiful daughter who would find love with the richest man in the land, and look what happened!”

            With that kind of guarantee, the daughter decided to give Zella a try. Gathering every coin she had, adding a few jewels she felt she could “lose” without punishment, she took the long journey to Zella’s door. 

            The young wife was surprised at how simple the pillow-maker lived. Her cottage was comfy but not opulent. Why didn’t a woman who had the power to make dreams come true live in wealth? However, her mother had assured her that Zella’s art was infallible. Thus, once there, the barren wife got right to the point. 

            “Come in, my lady,” Zella swept a low curtesy, for she’d never seen a woman dressed so richly.

“I desire a pillow that will give my husband dreams about children, the children he desires with me and only me. He is stubborn and old, but my mother tells me you can change any man’s mind with your dream pillows. I will pay you most handsomely.” Opening her purse, the wife displayed the small fortune she offered.

            Thinking about the request and rationalizing that the Bible said mankind was to go forth and multiply, therefore the dreams would be in furtherance of this command from God, Zella decided she was on firm ground to accept the coins. The money could be used for a new church roof, for the priest had been dropping hints. She told the young wife when to return for her pillow, and as soon as she had departed, Zella got to work. 

            First, she harvested the down, making sure she had enough for a grand sized pillow. The swans were particularly vicious that day, but she beat sense into them and they gave up their down . All of it. Their hisses followed her from the covered pen where the swans lived, if it could be called that.

            The pillow was one of her best. Free of any flaws, the linen snowy and covered in bright embroidery, the pillow was waiting for the young wife when she returned. Pleased with the pillow’s beauty, the wife promised to return when she was happily with child to let Zella know that all was well.

            The dreams the pillow sent worked their magic. Within a month, the wife was pleased to discover she was to become a mother, and that her husband was overjoyed at the news. Nine months later, the young wife died in childbed, and her child with her. The elderly husband sank into a grief so profound, his servants feared the worst.

            When she heard the news from the mother of the young wife, Zella was distraught. Her pillow dreams had never caused any harm. Shaken, she stopped making pillows for a while, but her husband and family and the priest had become accustomed to the money she earned, and cajoled her into starting up once again.

            But this time, something was different. The linen tangled in its spinning, the warp or the weft fell from the loom, and the dyes in her embroidery thread dulled to ugly colors. So many of her beautiful pillows were still out there, though, it took a while for news to spread that the pillows themselves were not the works of art they’d been in the past. And even worse, the dreams sold with each one didn’t work. In fact, nightmares became a regular occurrence for the new pillow-users. What was horrifying and baffling together, the pillows still in use began to falter and fail. Sad dreams, dreams that woke their sleepers with screams of terror emanated from the formerly wonderful pillows.

            Her purchasers didn’t just grumble. They ranted and raved and cursed her name. Fearing they would one day stone her, Zella fled to the parish priest for help. Her husband and children had already distanced themselves, pretending they had no idea what Zella had promised with her pillows.

            “Help me, Father. I can’t explain why my pillows cause more sorrow than joy, and I fear I will be stoned, or even worse! Burned for a witch!” Zella’s knees ached as she knelt before the priest.

            “It would be a fitting punishment for a witch!” he roared. “Get thee gone, daughter of Satan. Never darken this church door again!” He added a kick to his rant, sending Zella sprawling on the stone floor.

            “But Father, I have paid for the roof, the rebuilding of the altar, I have embroidered your vestments as well as the altar cloth! You know I am a faithful parishioner, how can you curse me?” 

            But her sobs had no effect, and she found herself at home, bruised and distraught, standing in the door of the swan house. Only they remained of her once content family. Everyone, all her children and her husband, had deserted her. They feared what was coming, she knew.

            Sobbing, she sank to the ground in the swan house. “What have I done?” she wailed. “I only wanted to help people.”

            The largest swan, a male cob, approached, wings aloft, head high, showing the red patches where his feathers hadn’t regrown, they’d been plucked so often. “What did you expect? That we would work our magic forever, with nary a word of thanks? You keep us penned in this cold place, and though you feed us, we are never free.  Our children, our cygnets, have never known the freedom to cross the sky. We have done enough, more than enough, for you were a good woman and we wished to help the people you helped, but we are done.”

            “How could I know this? You never spoke a word to me before today.” Wiping her eyes with her apron, Zella remained on the ground before the cob with his ten-foot wingspan.

            “We did. You didn’t listen until today.”

            Ceasing her crying, Zella realized what he said was true. “I was too busy listening to what others wanted. My customers, the priest, my family. My deepest apologies. What can I do to make it right, before the villagers come to tie me to the stake?”

            “Set us free.” Only the swans knew that the curse that had held them in their prison was ancient and made by her great grands well before Zella’s birth. Only she could free them, since she commanded their flock by birthright.

            “Of course. I am so sorry. But before you go, could you tell me why my relatives cursed you and kept you captive? I always assumed you were penned here to protect you, since you are so valuable.”

            The eldest cob turned so he faced the flock. “We were not always so kind. Only recently have we rediscovered our true natures. Mankind has not been our friend. Look at how you have scarred us by taking our downy feathers!”

            “Yet you still blessed so many of my pillows, until now?” Zella frowned, wiping tears from her face with her apron. “What changed?”

            The large cob, all the pens and cygnets, opened their beaks. Serrated teeth, sharp as a shark’s, glistened. Snapping their beaks shut, then open, in a steady rhythm, the swans surrounded Zella until she barely had room to breathe.

            “We grew our true beaks back,” the cob whispered in her ear. “The curse grew weaker, until we no longer had to give you, or anyone else, what was desired of us. Happiness, husbands, prosperity. None of it is left for us to give. Now, life for the pillows you bled us to fill shall be as it should. Uncertain and filled with danger.”

            Only then did Zella understand that none of the evil her pillows had wrought was her fault. The curse that kept the wicked swans in check and forced goodness down their captive spirits had waned. Snapping beaks nipped at her head scarf, her skirts, her sleeves.

            “Release us!” cried the largest swan. “Or you will die!”

            She knew what she must do. Summoning all her courage, Zella shouted out a curse she didn’t know she possessed, one that would guarantee she burned at the stake if the village priest heard it.

            “May you die in this pen if you do not help mankind and do only good as you are asked by humans! Every single one of you are hereby cursed. If you wish to live, obey me. If you do evil, your lives are forfeit!”  Fingering the crucifix at her neck, Zella stared at the large cob, who shrieked and beat at her with his wings.

            Only the first bites hurt, as the swans ripped open Zella’s throat and wrists, knowing exactly where to draw blood. As her life spread into the dirt of the pen, Zella felt at peace.  No more would the swans curse or bless humans. Her words had condemned them the minute she felt them come to her mouth. 

            As Zella died, so did the swans. They could not serve kindness to the humans they hated a second longer. So the oppressed died with the oppressor, as has been the case for thousands of years. When the villagers came for Zella, they couldn’t find her body. No one thought to look in the swan enclosure, but they’d have found only the remains of the dead birds.

Protecting our young girls

Me Too has become part of our vernacular - everyone can think of an instance where she can say “me, too.” We just don’t all choose to share those moments that made us feel like crap, or stupid for getting in that situation, or furious at our helplessness. I understand men can feel that way as well - in fact I just read a blog by a man who was continually propositioned by. powerful woman in his industry who was drunk - but I have the feeling men don’t get in these nightmare situations as often as women.

When my daughters went to college, we sat them down and explained that their home-built protection system wasn’t going to be there. They could no longer say, “I’m going to call my dad and he will kill you if you touch me once more.” We also explained that, as young women, they had to be careful to think carefully before doing something that could endanger them. Like drinking too much. Or drinking a drink they’d left unattended. Because, we pointed out, if some guy raped them, their father (veteran), uncles (both former military), and grandfather (also former military) would have to kill the creep, and they’d go to jail. I know its not the world we want but it’s the world we live in. Girls just have to think, to watch, and be careful. Not fair. Not right. But they are the prey to many creeps out there with no moral compass.

This made me think of how protected I have been by my family, starting with my great-grandmother. When I was a newborn, my parents drove me to see family and show me off, as new parents are wont to do. I was being given a bath in the kitchen sink, when my G-grandmother banished all the menfolk. “THIS IS A LITTLE GIRL” she commanded, now LEAVE. It sounds silly and old-fashioned, but now I see how she was setting a standard for my protection. I was a female and worthy of being protected by the womenfolk in my family. Men were not to take advantage of me in any way, not even family. I am grateful for that standard of protection, and that it has never wavered. I know I can depend on my people to protect me with every fiber of their being. And I will do the same for the young women who have come after me.

Halloween story 2018 True Love

Halloween 2018

True Love

There it was again – the flash of a black cat with white paws and a white-tipped tail from the corner of her eye, the cat gliding behind a door.  She didn’t own a cat. In fact, she’d never had a pet. So where had the cat gotten into her house? Dashing towards the kitchen door, Rowena grabbed the door knob and jerked it farther open.

            No cat hid behind the louvers. Holding her breath, Rowena strained to hear the click-click of sharp nails on the tile floor, the hiss of a tail brushing a wall. When she felt like she’d pass out, Rowena exhaled slowly and sucked in another batch of air. Nope, no cat noises came to her. She wondered if any of her neighbors had a new cat who’d figured out how to get into her house. Ridiculous, she realized. Her doors were kept locked, her windows as well. A woman living alone couldn’t be too careful.

            Days went by, and the cat never reappeared. Rowena forgot about it and lived her life, such as it was. She shopped for food, nothing very fancy but then, her tastes were simple. She watched PBS, especially enjoying the British dramas. Seldom reading newspapers, she got most of her news from the local TV channel, and when holidays rolled around, she hung her father’s American flag from the pole he’d installed in the front yard when she was a baby. She was eternally grateful to her parents, who’d left her with a comfortable inheritance, a house in what had been a decent neighborhood, and an extensive library. By the time she was twenty, she was an orphan, and it seemed silly to work at some menial job when she didn’t have to. So, she started re-reading the library she’d inherited, and by now she was on her third go-round. It never occurred to her to be discontent with her life.

            The next time she saw something from the corner of her eye, she almost panicked. A man, she was sure of it, swept past her bedroom door as she was folding back the quilt prior to getting into bed. She’d already checked the rest of the house for opened windows or unlocked doors, so she knew she hadn’t left anything unsecured. As quietly as she could, she slipped her bedroom door shut and locked it, propping her desk chair under the door knob for good measure. She almost picked up her beside phone to call the police, but she thought, given the cat incident, she’d better make sure first. She didn’t want the police making notes of her as a nuisance caller, and she certainly didn’t want or need their attention. So once more, she listened, ear pressed to the wooden bedroom door, breath held, her mind racing. If asked, she could describe the intruder as fairly tall, with light brown hair, wearing something dark. Neither heavy nor thin, she decided. And he hadn’t been skulking or wearing a balaclava or mask. He seemed to be traveling from room to room, as if he belonged there. 

            By the time her racing heart had calmed down, Rowena convinced herself no one was waiting in the hallway to pounce on her as soon as she opened her door. Still, she was keyed up enough to know she couldn’t sleep, so she crawled into her twin bed, checked once more visually to make sure her bedroom door was locked and barricaded, and pulled out her book. She was half-way through with Middlemarch, again, and enjoying it as much as ever. Only tonight she couldn’t concentrate on the words. Why had that man broken into her house, and what was he planning on doing? 

            The downstairs held only old family furniture, in massive need of refinishing, some sun-struck curtains, ancient kitchen ware and pots, and two threadbare carpets. Rowena never saw the need to repair, replace, or repaint anything, since everything had been good enough for her parents, thus for her as well. Only her books were worth money, and she knew no one would want to steal them. Too heavy.  Too cumbersome. 

            Dozing off and on, Rowena awoke to a bright sunny morning. Brushing aside last night’s home invasion like a bothersome spider web, she got dressed and determined she’d check her household goods before she bothered to file a police report. Yes, that was what she’d do, she’d go down to the nearest police station and report the man. Maybe the police would send a squad car around the block for the next few nights. She wasn’t afraid, not of the man and not of the cat. She was made of sterner stuff, she reminded herself.

            All her bravado deserted her as she cracked open the door of her pink bedroom, decorated with roses and vines wall paper when she was twelve. The white lacy curtains had aged into an ugly yellow, but Rowena never noticed such inconsequential details. “Hello?” she called tentatively from behind her door. “Anyone out there?”

            Slamming the door shut would take mere seconds, she reasoned. She tried once more. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

            Silence answered her. Giving her shoulders a shake, she rammed her bedroom door open, knocking the door knob into the side of her pink-painted dresser. “I’m coming out now! You’d better not be anywhere in my house, you hear me? Mr. Robber Man?”

            The floor board outside the bathroom creaked under her weight, just as it had done all her life. The sun streamed through the threadbare curtains in her parents’ room, sending dust motes dancing in the hallway air. Quickly opening the bathroom door, she jumped in, locked it behind her, and took care of her ablutions with a minimum of fuss.  She needed to brush her teeth before she went to the police.

            The bathroom mirror showed her the circles under her blue eyes. Her plain hair hung in hunks on her shoulders, since she’d been too nervous last night to braid it before lying down. This is silly, she told herself. No one’s in the house.  Dressing quickly, she decided she’d keep herself physically busy today. Usually she became maudlin when she became housebound, and memories of her parents, already old when they adopted her but devoted to her happiness, came rushing in. But she’d been to the store, she’d even spoken with the cashier, even though her voice croaked from dis-use. She had a list to accomplish, she didn’t have time for such silliness as wandering down to the police station. 

            She needed to do something fun and different! She’d work on her music today, even sing a few of the old favorites. Though she loved opera, she’d never had the voice for it, despite years of lessons. Still, it gave her parents joy when she’d sing an aria or two, no matter how warbly. Yes, that was it! She’d resume her singing. Thatshould chase away any odd spirits or humans trying to take over her home. Or whatever they were. Rowena didn’t believe in ghosts, for surely if such a thing existed, her parents would have returned to her in some form or another, and they hadn’t, despite all her wishing and praying for it to be so.

            She had to get to work, right now. Foregoing her morning tea and toast, Rowena grabbed her mother’s straw hat from the hook by the back door and jammed it on her head. Despite its ragged, straw-dangling edges and crushed crown, Rowena wore it whenever she ventured into the yard. That’s what a lady did, she protected her complexion. And Rowena’s skin was as smooth as a baby’s. Her mother had been right about wearing a hat. Next, she unlocked the back door and urged her feet into the morning sun. Her will power, never weak, seemed to be deserting her today, but that wasn’t the Rowena Wilkins her parents had raised. She would mow the lawn today, and that was all there was to it!

            Without giving her feet a chance to drag her back inside, Rowena trod down the steps of the back porch and opened the door underneath. Dragging out the old push mower, she checked to make sure the blades were still sharp. They weren’t. She must have been careless the last time she mowed and neglected to sharpen them before putting the mower away. The hasp she used for sharpening hung on a string from a nail just inside the door, and she found it without looking. Kneeling beside the once-green painted mower, she went to work on the old blades, so worn there was almost no blade left. Her papa hated gas-powered gadgets, said they did nothing but belch black smoke and make too much noise. He’d have driven a horse and buggy if it had been possible. Rowena smiled at the memory as she worked to get an edge on the old blades.

            “Could I be of some assistance?” The male voice came from behind her, sending Rowena into a very unladylike squeak and onto her bottom.  

            Hastily pulling her skirt down to her shins, Rowena tipped back the straw hat so she could see who was invading her privacy.

            “Of course not. I know what I’m doing,” she snapped. “What are you doing here?”

            He wasn’t tall, she noted. Nor thin. In fact, he was a bit pudgy and definitely not young, nor handsome. His thick lenses magnified his eyes so they looked out of proportion to his face. Rowena noticed they were very blue and looked kind.

            “I’m Wallace Lacey. The piano tuner. I had a message there was a Steinway baby grand here that needed tuning. I must say, I was quite excited. It’s been a while since I got to work on a baby grand.” 

            Rowena finally noticed he was holding a briefcase. “I didn’t call anyone to tune my piano.” Trying to rise and keep her modesty was impossible, and she struggled to get to her feet. 

            Mr. Lacey held out his hand along with a sad smile. “I must say, I thought the address must be incorrect. I’ve been ringing the front door bell for ages, and to be honest, I always thought this house empty.”

            With a huff, Rowena got to her feet with his help, but he didn’t let go of her hand. “Of course, it’s not empty, I’ve lived here my whole life. Rowena Wilkins.”

            “Mrs. Wilkins, pleased to meet you. Sorry for the scare, I won’t bother you any longer.” With a sad smile, Wallace Lacy turned on his sensible oxford shoes and started walking away.

            Smoothing her cotton skirt, Rowena glanced from her mower to Mr. Lacey. She had, after all, decided to resume singing just this morning. And she did possess a fine, though old, Steinway baby grand. It hadn’t been tuned in years, not since she’d stopped playing when her parents became ill. 

            “Mr. Lacy, don’t go. And it’s MissWilkins. I do possess a Steinway, and strange that you should show up today, just when I’ve decided to play it again.”

            Pivoting, Wallace beamed at her. “I say, that’s quite the coincidence. Could I take a look? Just to make sure I can help it, you know. Sometimes, parts, new strings, new keys, must be ordered.”

            Rowena thought of the cat and the man. Maybe if Mr. Lacey saw them, she could confirm someone had broken into her house. Then she wouldn’t feel so odd about reporting it to the police. 

            “Please, do.” Forgetting the mower, Rowena led the way into her kitchen with its cracked linoleum from the 1930s and the old wood burning stove.

            “My goodness, this a veritable museum!” Mr. Lacey halted, gazing around in amazement. “I haven’t seen a kitchen this homey in years.”

            “Well, it’s the way it was when my parents were alive. I hated to change anything, and since I didn’t have to, I didn’t. Everything works as it should.”

            “Do you chop the wood for the stove?” Wallace ran a careful hand over the blackened iron surface. She used boot black on it at least twice a year, as her mother had.  “Must keep your kitchen warm in the winter.”

            “And summer. That’s why I don’t bake from June through August.” Rowena smiled, patting the cast iron surface with the apron hanging from an adjacent hook, as if trying to remove any trace of Wallace’s fingers from the surface. “Of course, I chop my own wood.”

            “My goodness gracious. And you play piano as well.”

            “I don’t know about the ‘well’ part. But I can play adequately for my needs. I’m actually a singer,” she said, her voice trailing off. Was she boasting? Could she call herself a singer after so many years of silence? How unbecoming of her. Mama would be ashamed. She needed to be truthful.

            “Not a good one. I never was. But I love singing, and my parents indulged me,” she added after a second, as if she had to explain herself. “I play piano for accompaniment.” 

            “How wonderful to have such gifts.” Wallace gave a last look around the kitchen and following her into the breakfast pantry, then through to the dining room, he seemed overwhelmed. Only when she stopped in the front parlor beside the Steinway did he focus on one single thing. The piano.

            The dark ebony wood gleamed. Rowena may not have been practicing, but she kept her house spotless. The Steinway, a gift from her father, got extra love. Wallace pulled out the bench and sat, running his fingers along the keyboard cover. “May I see how far out of tune it’s fallen?”

            “Sure. Have at it.” Rowena took the rocker to the piano’s left, the seat her father used when he would shut his eyes and listen to her sing as she played melody.

            Running the scales, Wallace concentrated on each note. Over and over, he plunked keys and turning his head like a curious squirrel, listened. 

            “I think I can put her to rights without anything else. Well, I need my tuning fork, of course.”

            “May I watch?” Rowena found herself reluctant to tear herself away from this man who seemed to have appeared in her life like a sign from God. “And if you happen to see a cat anywhere, could you let me know?”

* * * * * * *

            Rowena found her voice with Mr. Lacey. He offered to play for her while she sang, and sometimes, he’d weave in a gentle harmony that she secretly found thrilling. His harmonizing was never boastful, always respectful of her melody, and showed her just how much they could work together without rubbing each other the wrong way.

            She almost forgot about the man and the cat who’d appeared to her. Wallace consumed her thoughts more and more, and she wondered if this is what it felt like to be in love. Whenever he sat across the old breakfast table from her, sipping a post-music cup of tea, she found herself daydreaming about how it would feel to have him around all the time. If they married, she reasoned, they’d live together in her house, of course. For she had no idea where he lived and what he did with the hours he didn’t spend with her, and it didn’t bother her one bit. 

            Mama had always said when the love bug bit her, it would bite hard. She rather thought that had happened, at long last. One night, braiding her hair and singing softly the old tune she’d practiced that day with Wallace, she wasn’t paying much attention to where she was going. She knew the way from the bathroom to her girlhood bedroom so well, she could have found it in pitch black. Buttoning the top button of her long gown, she almost fell over as something brushed her shoulder. 

            “Who’s there?” she whispered, afraid to take another step. This time, she saw the movement clearly, a woman this time, going up the stairs to hallway. Her brown hair bounced, its curls brushing her shoulders, and the housedress she wore looked suspiciously similar to one her mother had owned.

            “Where did you get that?” Rowena called, bolder now that she’d had a good look. “My mother’s dress, why are you wearing it?”

            Pausing in front of her parents’ bedroom, the woman turned and looked at Rowena full on. She’d seen that expression before many, many times. Love, pure love. 

            “Mama?” Rowena took a step toward the woman who so resembled her mother, only much younger than she’d ever known her. “Is that you?”

            The woman disappeared. “Mama?” Rowena cried, racing for the bedroom door and snatching it open. “Mama, where are you?” 

            The dust covers over the furniture shook slightly with the breeze from the suddenly opened door. Her mother’s sewing basket still sat on the table beside the old chair where her mother had fixed hems and sewn on buttons. The curtains, as aged and yellowed as the ones in Rowena’s bedroom, lifted slightly as well.

            “Oh, mama,” Rowena sobbed. “Come back to me.”

            Even as feelings she hadn’t had in twenty years threatened to drag her under a thundering wave of sorrow, Rowena knew she wasn’t summoned to sadness. Her mother had smiled, looked happy, young, and as if she’d never aged and died. How could that be, Rowena wondered. Wandering back to her own room, she perched on the window sill and looked out into the night. Neighbors no longer lit their porches, and old cars littered their dirt-bare yards. In her parents’day, lush grass, flowers, and neat front porches lined the street. When had ugliness become the norm, 

Rowena wondered. 

            That night she dreamed of her family. Her mother and father worked the garden that overflowed with tomatoes and pole beans, which she canned with her mother during hot afternoons in August. Her father scrubbed the storm windows, preparing them for winter, and painted the porch steps every summer to keep them from looking worn. In her dream, her family was young and vibrant, in a way she’d never known them since she’d been adopted late in their lives. Strangest of all, a black and white cat roamed the yard, winding around her father’s ankles for a scratch behind the ears. Rowena had never known a pet, not ever. When had the cat been a part of her family?

            Awakening the next morning, Rowena hurried to dress. She couldn’t wait to tell Wallace about it. She’d never told him about seeing the man from the corner of her eye that day, but how she could explain to him that she was sure it was her father, only younger. And her mother, entering their bedroom. He wouldn’t think her crazy. Or would he?

            She worried about what to tell him all morning as she fixed a lunch for the two of them. He’d promised to drop by at one for a quick bite, for he had afternoon appointments to repair a trombone which had met its demise at the hand of a temperamental little boy, and a guitar run over by a bike.  Children, he’d sighed when he told her about his next jobs, just hadn’t been taught respect for their instruments.

            Setting the breakfast table with a red checked cloth and her favorite blue willow china, she decided to squeeze fresh lemons for lemonade at the last minute. Iced tea seemed too mundane for the conversation she wanted to hold with him. Checking the hand-wound kitchen clock, she saw she had thirty minutes until he appeared. If she hurried, she’d have time to get to the store and still make lemonade. Rushing, she didn’t notice the large equipment rumbling down her street. Only the bother of getting around them registered. The store wasn’t crowded, for it never was these days, and the lemons seemed puny and old, but she bought enough to get some juice, she hoped. Wheeling into her driveway with difficulty, she parked the old Ford in the shed where it always stayed and hurried into the kitchen.

            The heavy equipment was parked in front of her house. She hoped Wallace could get into her driveway, where he normally parked his small car. Some neighbor must have to dig up a sewer line, she guessed, checking out the big pieces on flat beds before she unlocked the front door for Wallace. He liked to walk past the Steinway on his way to kitchen, so she always left the door unlocked for him.

            The lemon juice stung the small cuts on her hands, ones she hadn’t noticed she had. Still, it made her nails nice and white, and she dabbed a bit of the juice behind one ear so she’d smell lemony fresh. Her mother had done the same with vanilla extract. She wrenched the ice tray into the pitcher where she’d added the juice, water, and a good bit of sugar, and admired her handiwork. Lemonade made a meal special, she thought.

            Checking the clock again, she saw that Wallace was late, which was very unlike him. She planned over and over how to tell him she’d seen her parents, but they were young and in the house. Draping a napkin over his sandwich (no mayonnaise, a little butter, and cut diagonally), Rowena wondered what could have held him up. She determined not to fret. But by the time he was forty-five minutes late, she felt panic threatening. Now that she’d resolved to tell him about her parents appearing to her as a young couple, long before she was born, he wasn’t there? Did he sense she’d decided to make a break from the past and weave a new future with him, for now that she was afraid he’d never see her again, she knew what she wanted to do. 

            Her parents could have the house. They’d always been there, she just hadn’t been able to see them before when she was closed off to happiness of her own. Now that Wallace had come into her world and shown her she could be happy with him, they’d appeared to give her permission to make a new life. She’d even, she told herself sternly, give up her own house to be with him in his if that was what he wanted.

            The thought sent her reeling to the nearest chair. How could she go? And leave mama and papa alone in the house? But they’d been alone there before she’d been adopted, of course they would be just fine. Fingering the apron her mother had worn, and which now covered her own dress, she decided today was the day. Untying the apron, she removed it, folded it neatly, and returned to the kitchen to place it in the drawer with the dishtowels her mother had embroidered with little flowers. She would take nothing with her when she moved with Wallace. After they were married, of course.

            She blushed at the thought. Here she was planning an engagement and wedding, and Wallace hadn’t said a word along those lines. But she knew he was thinking that way. He said he thought about her every minute he wasn’t with her. He praised her cooking and housekeeping and said he could sing along with her all day, it was such a pleasure. A man didn’t make such compliments lightly, she knew from reading novels. A man with marriage on his mind, did. 

            She hadn’t thought marriage was part of her future. And maybe it still wasn’t. Where was Wallace? Fretting, she kept busy dusting close to the phone, in case he called. The ice in the lemonade melted, making it too weak. She poured out the liquid in the sink and started over, thinking it was a good thing she’d bought more lemons than she needed. Too nervous to eat herself, she finally put the sandwiches in the ice box and lit the oil lamp on the kitchen table. 

            Hours passed. She stopped checking the kitchen clock.

            Sinking into a chair, she hid her face in her hands. She hadn’t cried since her parents left her all alone. Now, the tears fell and leaked through her fingers, wetting her skirt. She’d never know where things had gone wrong with Wallace, but most of all, she mourned the future she’d believed was hers. Companionship with a like-minded individual. A man who found her to be talented and interesting. A man who could make her heart race just by taking her hand. By the time the oil lamp had burned down to the nubbins, Rowena was all cried out.

            “There,” she proclaimed aloud, “that’s the last time I do that. Time for bed, I’ll clean the kitchen in the morning.”

            Hauling herself upright, she made her feet march up the stairs to get ready for bed. Routine, that’s what she needed. To get back into her routine, her life before Wallace turned it upside down and six ways to Sunday. She wasn’t really looking when she got to the top of the stairs, she was so busy giving herself a good talking-to, so she almost missed it. Or them.

            The man and the woman in her dream. Her mom and dad, decades younger. Her mom held a black and white cat in her arms, while her father’s right arm wound around her mother’s waist. Smiling, they waved to her and slowly dissolved. Farewell. That was their message, Rowena knew it in her innermost being. This time the tears came so suddenly, Rowena got the hiccups. Not only had Wallace abandoned her, but her parents’ ghosts as well.  She was well and truly all alone. Sinking into a heap at the top of the stairs, Rowena sobbed until there was nothing left to come out of her eyes.

            A rapid, overly loud knocking noise came from downstairs. Glancing down the stairs, Rowena wondered for a second what time it was. Had to be very late at night, she guessed. Who could be at her door at this hour? Dragging herself to her feet, she resisted the urge to hurry down to see if it was Wallace. He would never be so inconsiderate. But if not Wallace, then who?

            The front door burst open, slamming the opposite wall so hard a picture crashed to the floor. “Rowena,” Wallace yelled. “Get up. We must go now!”

            She’d forgotten she’d unlocked the front door hours earlier in anticipation of his arrival for lunch. Now, she was beyond hurt and into being furious. How dare he burst into her home with no warning? No call?

            “Get out!” Rowena screamed from the top of the stairs. “I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again!”

            Stumbling up the stairs in his haste, Wallace aimed his flashlight at her face. “Rowena, there’s no time for hysterics. They’re going to tear your house down in about an hour! They finished with mine late tonight, and I’ve just gotten what I could salvage into my car. They kept me out while they knocked down my apartment building. When they finished for the night, I got back in, and oh, Rowena, I heard the workmen say before they left that your house is next!”

            Mouth ajar, Rowena pushed her hair out of her face, her tears forgotten. “They can’t do that! I own this house! I’m never leaving!” All thoughts of moving in with Wallace after their marriage had disappeared for good.

            “Honey, they can do what they want. This whole block is scheduled for redevelopment. Again, I heard the workers talking while they took a break. I don’t know why you didn’t receive a notice, but your neighbors are all gone. Not a single one is still living here. Didn’t you notice?”             

            She didn’t know how to tell him she never paid any attention to her neighbors. They were simply there. Her life was in this house. With her parents.

            “I can’t go. My parents are still here.” She didn’t tell him the whole story, about her mother’s little wave of farewell. “And I want you to leave. Go away and don’t come back.” It killed her to say the words, but she wouldn’t ever cry again over Wallace Lacey.

            No one could demolish her house. She’d chain herself to the tub. She’d beat off anyone who dared challenge her. She knew how to hit a man where it hurt, her father had showed her. She started down the stairs to get the snow chains for the car’s tires from the shed, focused on what she had to do immediately, without seeing Wallace step in front of her. 

            Wallace stepped in front of her, holding her arms so hard it hurt. “Sweetheart, you can’t do a thing. I know. I’ve spent all day at city hall, tracking down anyone who could help me, but the truth is, all these properties were condemned months ago. Let me help you pack whatever you can in the next hour, and we can be out of here before they fire up the bulldozers.” Wrapping his arms around her, Wallace kissed her forehead, then her lips.

            “All that matters is that we’re together.” His words, whispered in her ear, cut through the panic and fury.

            “Really?” Rowena couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness, for his flashlight was aimed down. “You mean it?”

            “I do, my love. I have a ring somewhere in my coat pocket. I picked it up from the jeweler today. Wanted to surprised you with it at lunch, and then I saw the bulldozers ramming my apartment building when I came home to pick up my repair kit.”

            “Why didn’t you call me?” Rowena felt childish, but she’d been through such hell, she didn’t care.

            “My phone was inside my apartment,” he reminded her gently. “I couldn’t get in until they left off work, and then, I was mostly looking for my repair equipment.  The phone was gone, of course. I had no idea they were going to knock down my place, either. I mean, I knew I was the only tenant, but I had been for years. The landlord still cashed my checks!”

            “Oh Wallace, how awful. I feel terrible now. I thought you’d given up on me and didn’t have the courage to tell me good-bye.” Rowena started to sniffle once more.

            “”Now, now, my love. Don’t cry. We’ll get through this. After all, we’ll have each other. Now, where is that ring? I want you to wear it this instant. Never think I don’t love you. I have since we first met by accident and find myself more and more in love with you every day, if that’s possible. And I quite think it is!”

            Even in the flashlight’s glow, the diamond sparkled. Gasping, Rowena offered her left hand, smiling through her tears as Wallace slid it on her ring finger. “Forever, my dear Wallace. We’ll be together forever.”

            “Of course, dearest. I wouldn’t settle for less.” Clasping her tightly to his chest, Wallace rained kisses on her.

* * * * * * *

“This is the last one, thank God. These old places give me the creeps. Look at that grass, will ‘ya? Must be 

three feet high. Didja ever?”

            “This block went downhill twenty-five years ago. I tell ya, they shoulda condemned the whole block back then. Nothin’ but rats and trash, that’s all it is. Look at that house, I tell ya, you can’t really say it’s a house anymore. All those broken windows, porch and roof caving in. Bet druggies been hangin’out in there.”

            “Let’s get going. Don’t want another long day like yesterday. That old apartment complex was a bear to take down. And it looked in worse shape than this slum. Fire up the ‘dozer and get ‘er off the flatbed.”

            Dawn was just edging over the horizon as the beasts roared into life and charged into the front porch. One lift of its bucket, and the porch was nothing but kindling. The two men worked tirelessly, and by ten that morning, nothing remained of the house that had stood for a hundred years but its brick foundation. 

            “That’s it, then. We can take a half day off, far as I’m concerned. Good work.” Loading up the bulldozers, the two men drove off, leaving the square miles behind them as flattened as if the Nagasaki bomb had been detonated.

* * * * * * * *

            Even though Rowena threw a few belongings and mostly photos in the old cardboard suitcase her mother had used last on her honeymoon, she wasn’t ready to leave. At Wallace’s urging, she took a last wander through the old house, visiting her special spots where she’d read, the kitchen where she’d spent many happy hours with her mother, and her father’s workshop in the shed. 

            “Can I take some of his tools, do you think?” she asked Wallace.

            “How much do you think you can carry out of here? We can buy what we need at our new place. Come on, honey.”

            As she turned to leave the shed behind for the last time, Rowena caught the morning sun glinting off the second story windows. “I can’t do it, Wallace. You have to talk them out of it. I’d rather die than leave my house. Can you do it? Can you talk to them, please?” Her tired eyes filled with tears once more.

            “Honey bunch,” Wallace sighed. “Oh, all right. I’ll give it a try. No harm in asking. No promises, either.”

            She waited in the yard while he spoke with the men wearing hard hats. Finally, they shook hands with Wallace, and drove off. She couldn’t believe how brave Wallace was. Such courage, she thought. And he’s mine.

If possible, more love and joy bloomed inside her. How happy mama and daddy would be. She hoped they’d stuck around long enough to see what a great son-in-law they were getting.

            “Come on, sweetie. We can go back inside. All’s well that ends well.”

            “When can we get married? I’d like a simple affair, here in the house.”

            “Whatever you want, darling. We have all the time in the world.”

            His words were true. They lived the rest of their lives in the old house with yellowed curtains. Every now and then Rowena thought she saw her parents and the black and white cat from the corner of her eye, but part of her knew it was wishful thinking. They’d moved out when they were sure she had found happiness and true love. She hadn’t needed them anymore.

* * * * * * *

            The condominiums that sprang up on the ground cleared of rubble from all the demolition work sold like party favors on New Year’s Eve. The neighborhood had been gentrified, the locals said. It was now a desirable address. 

            One young couple bought their first house in the complex, spending too much but knowing it would be their home for many years to come. They liked everything about their new condo, except the wife would get the strangest feeling she was being watched. It wasn’t possible, of course. Then one day she saw a black and white cat in the laundry room and got spooked. There was no way that cat got in by itself. When she went to pick it up to see if it wore a collar with a tag, it disappeared. Literally before her eyes. 

            She was afraid to tell her husband about the cat. She wasn’t the type to get scared easily, and she didn’t want to ruin her reputation. That didn’t last long. A few days, at the most. The short, pudgy man she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye while she fixed her kale smoothie sat as if playing a piano, but there was no piano. A faint, warbling echo of a song came to her, and with that, she ran from the house, got in her car, and didn’t stop driving until she got to her gym, where she did an extreme workout and swore she’d never mention seeing a ghost as long as she lived.

            Baffled by his wife’s insistence that they sell the condo immediately, her husband wondered if she was pregnant and hormonal. His mother said it was possible, so he bought a pregnancy test on the way home.

Politics and the Writer

Given the current political climate and the incredible and unbelievable news out of Washington, D.C., it's been just about impossible to write fiction. I mean, really, life is just a huge novel at the moment - not a very good one, but incredibly scary at the same time. I can't help but see Trump everywhere I look. Saw the Napoleon exhibit at the Virginia Museum, and all I could think was, "Trump before there was a Trump. Egomaniacal, chauvinist, narcissistic, self-aggrandizing little jerk - could apply to either the Little Corporal or the Orange One." Didn't really enjoy the museum, given the depressing similarities to Napoleon and Trump. Though Napoleon sure made sure his syncopants were splendidly dressed!

Garrett Epps, originally a Richmonder, wrote the ultimate political novel, THE SHAD PLANKING, many many years ago as a grad student in creative writing at Hollins College. Henry Howell's campaign was the backbone of the book. I've never forgotten the scary shenanigans he described in the novel, and it's terrifying to think it's only gotten worse in the years since its publication. Why anyone would want to subject him or herself to the political machinery is beyond me. They must have a strong masochistic streak is the only explanation I can swallow. Doing good stuff for God and country can take many forms, most of which don't try to destroy a candidate all in the name of winning. Remember the rumors about John McCain's black child circulated in South Carolina during the 2000 primary? His adopted daughter from Bangladesh became a political hot potato that led to her father's primary loss in the still racially divided South. 

All of which goes to show how my mind is twirling these days - down the primrose path of politics, and it's ain't good, folks. Not good at all. I need my fictional world where I control the characters and good guys win, albeit after a hard time. And the bad guys take their sleazy comb overs off into the sunset. 

Keepin' it real

The past six or seven weeks have been flu hell. I got every kind you can have, then added bronchitis to the mix. I won't go into the gory details, but I feel as if I've been on a bender I can't remember and had no fun at all in the process. Netflix was my saving grace, but I was so tired of being useless, I was ready to crawl out of my sick bed and clean house. The dust bunnies had finally won. Dog hair was free-floating like a skateboard gold medalist. Bless my daughter's heart, she did a big shop for pre-made meals, ran the vacuum, and gave me the shot in the rump I needed to start to rally.

So rally I have. One hundred and four pages into the new mystery. I'm thinking this feels like a series, and I'm liking it. Haven't been in the pool yet - I dread how out of shape I've become, and the longer I can postpone the inevitable moment of truth, the better. 

I'll post bits of the new book, and if you'd like to tell me I've lost my everylovin' mind, feel free to do so. Speaking of loving', I hope your Valentine's Day was a good one. Ours was quiet - but sweet. My Beloved never fails to come through. The boy was raised right.

Annual Halloween Story!

Every year since my children were small, I've written a Halloween story for them. Since they're adults now, I'm writing them more for my own amusement. Hope you enjoy this year's effort!

The Visit

            Letitia Bally, known as Letty to her family, had achieved a master’s degree in decorative arts, specializing in early nineteenth century, a feat which surprised no one in her family.  They knew she had eccentricities, but she used them well in her graduate studies.  Letty had never looked her age, with her long brown hair tied in braids and a galaxy of freckles bright on her pale cheeks. She wore rose water for her cologne and black lace up shoes that were favored by those who dressed Goth, but which for her looked old-fashioned. Her camisoles she made by hand and added antique lace, and a cameo she’d bought at an antique shop was her only jewelry. It always covered the top button of her blouse, except when it was very hot, and then she’d pin it to her collar. Those who didn’t know her wondered if she was the child bride of a cult leader with twenty teen-aged wives, her clothes were so odd and hemmed to the tops of her ankles.

            Her parents accepted her eccentricities and her, because they loved her, but they worried that she never dated, had never had a beau, and was getting close to thirty. They’d hoped she’d outgrow her antique affectations, and her father promised to but her a convertible Volkswagen Beetle if she’d wear something more modern, like jeans. Didn’t happen. Letty didn’t care about cars, except as the currently acceptable mode of transportation. Secretly, she wished she could take a horse and buggy to work.

            Her one true gift was an ability to spot an antique and where it had been made, with unerring accuracy.  In school, her teachers had remarked among themselves that she seemed to have “the gift.”

            “It’s almost as if she speaks their language,” they muttered, simultaneously envious and proud of their prize pupil.

            At least, her parents consoled each other, she had a job. Much to their surprise, her graduate degree landed her a gig working for a museum in the South. She was tasked to travel the countryside, looking for authentic period pieces that the museum could collect. American decorative arts were hot items in the antiques world, and getting scarcer than hen’s teeth.

“What kind of assurance do you have that you’ll be safe?” Letty’s father wasn’t thrilled with the idea of their only child driving the back roads of the redneck South alone.

“The museum receives hundreds of letters every year, with photos falling from envelopes or attachments to emails, displaying family furniture and pictures that are for sale. Those that look the most promising received a return phone call, and sometimes an appointment is set up for a look-see.” Letty wasn’t worried. At least she wouldn’t be cooped up in an office cubicle.

“I get to give the piece a thorough examination, and if I recommend it, it gets brought to the museum for a final inspection before an offer is made.” Letty was quite proud of her authority, but knew it was justified.

            Her boss said Letty had the “eye.” While he thought her style of dress an affectation, he had to admit she was right 99% of the time when she suggested an offer be made for a piece. The one percent wasn’t a failure of authenticity, but of need. The museum had a narrow focus, and sometimes, while a sideboard or tall chest was especially nice, they already had one a bit nicer or they just didn’t need anything from that region at that time.

            “Well, keep your cell phone handy and don’t stick around anywhere that makes you feel uncomfortable.” Secretly, Letty’s father wanted to go with her, but knew she’d have a fit if he suggested it. For the first time in her life, Letty felt like she fit in and had purpose.

            Staying in cheap motels and eating fast food wasn’t Letty’s idea of heaven, but the museum per diem was pretty paltry, and besides, those were usually the only offerings where Letty was sent, into the middle of nowhere. She pretended her beat-up Toyota was a curricle, the awful hotels a posting house on the way to London, and McDonald’s was the equivalent of pub fare. It was all worth it when she saw the treasures she was sent to assess, and a diamond of the first water, as she put it, was waiting to be rescued from some sad little trailer sitting behind a decrepit barn.

            Today, however, had been a roster of disappointments. Nothing she’d seen had made her drool with joy.  The sun was hot, the car hotter, and she was feeling totally disgusted with the list her boss had given her to check out. The man was an idiot. Never had she seen such junk.

            The next site on her list was one she should have put off to the next day, but she decided to hurry to get everything seen so she could head home sooner rather than later. So she drove on. The letter sent to the museum was in her briefcase, but there’d been no photo of the sideboard. Strangely, the letter was handwritten in pencil on lined school notebook paper, and the handwriting large and loopy, as if a child had written it. But the description of the sideboard was precise, with excellent provenance given, and its history laid out with scholarly precision. Whoever had written the letter, for the signature was illegible, knew exactly what he or she was doing to pique the museum’s curiosity. It was probably a hoax, Letty decided. The perfect end to a perfectly wasted day.

            The summer sun dallied on the hilly horizon as Letty pulled her car into a dirt driveway. Rusted out pickups, both old as the hills, teetered on broken axels beside the front of the two-story house, and broken plastic milk cartons and mangled bicycles added to the sad ambiance of the place. Frowning, Letty wondered if she’d gotten the address right.  A quick check of the return address on the envelope with the letter sent to the museum matched the sad mailbox at the end of the drive. Yep, she’d gotten it right.

            Huge vines draped the bare wooden siding of the house, engulfing the chimney and trailing over windows on the second floor. No one came to the front door, which often happened when she visited the properties set up for her by the museum. She knew a call should have been made, telling the owners generally when to expect her, but she was hurried and not hopeful, so who cared?   

            She didn’t encourage anyone’s hopes that the museum would make an offer, and the general disappointment had depressed her. The unending poverty of this part of Georgia, the trailers with rotting roofs and mongrel dogs guarding the front door, had all melded into such a depressing picture of an America she hadn’t known existed when she was growing up in the suburbs of Chicago. Let someone else crush the fragile dreams of fragile people, she thought as she tapped the car horn to announce her presence.

            She should go. No one came to the door, or from anywhere. Putting the Toyota into reverse, Letty felt the wheels slip. It almost felt as if she’d gotten the car stuck in a snow bank.

            What on earth, she wondered? Getting out, she checked all four tires.  Flat as pancakes.

            Stunned, she sat down behind the wheel and tried to think. She had one spare, and that certainly wasn’t going to do the job. Pulling out her cell phone, she held it aloft at different angles to try to get a signal. Nothing. What next? She drew a blank until she realized the highway ran beside the house, close enough the bushes to the left of it swayed with the breeze as tractor trailers blew by.  She had one option – head down to the highway and hope she could flag down someone who would send a tow truck.

            Sighing, she retrieved her briefcase and began walking down the driveway, not looking forward to the danger of the highway. She knew she shouldn’t, but what else could she do? With no cell phone service and no one at home, she was out of ideas. Striding along with a false sense of bravado, she ran smack dab into an invisible wall, bouncing back so hard she ended up on her backside in the dirt.

            What the. . ? Her nose hurt where it had hit the barrier, and she thought she might have wrenched her knee. Dragging herself upright, she was astounded to see nothing in front of her. Feeling like a fool, she hoisted her briefcase strap to her shoulder, and took a step forward.  This time she stumbled back without landing on her keister. 

            No, no, no, she silently screamed. This couldn’t be happening. What was going on? The highway sounds had grown fainter and now she was aware of someone breathing hard. Harder than she was. Turning slowly, she was shocked to see a small figure on the front porch.

            “Okay, what the hell is happening here?” Letty demanded. “I want to leave.”

            “We thought you’d come to see the sideboard, if you’re Letty Bally.” The voice was deeper than that of a child. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. We were . . . busy.”

            “I did. Come to see the sideboard. Why can’t I leave? What is going on?” Letty forced herself to remain calm. As calm as she could be, given the pickle she was in. Pickle, she realized, being as stupid a description as she could dig up. What kind of trouble was she in? Everything she was experiencing was too far beyond her normal life for her to think logically.

            “Would you like a cup of tea? It will refresh you, I am sure.” The girl gestured to the front door. “We’d love to have you join us.”

            Staring at the figure on the sagging porch, Letty hesitated. She was there for a job, after all. And she was thirsty. Maybe she’d think more clearly after a cup of tea. Obviously, her long, hot, and disappointing day had affected her hold on reality.

            “I’d be pleased,” Letty replied, finding pleasure in the old-fashioned acceptance.

            The figure, dressed, Letty could now see, in a flowered gown with an empire waistline that brushed the ground, disappeared through the front door. Ascending to rickety stairs, Letty hesitated a second before following her inside. What if this was some sort of trap? Then again, what kind of trap could a child set? And she really should see the sideboard.

            Entering the foyer, she felt like Alice dropping through the rabbit hole. Nothing outside the decrepit house hinted at the exquisitely decorated interior. Instantly recognizing the Louis Quatorze chairs and Regency table, Letty tried, unsuccessfully, to keep her jaw from dropping open.

            “Tea is served in the sun room,” the small woman smiled as Letty halted in her tracks. “This way, if you please.”

            She was a woman, Letty realized. Under five feet tall, but a woman for sure. With her hair pulled into a bun on top of her head, stray curls dangling down her cheeks, and a thin linen scarf wrapped around her neckline, she looked as if she’d walked out of an illustration of an 1820s novel. 

            “Ah, I see you’re intrigued by the sideboard.” Without realizing she’d been staring as she was guided through the dining room, Letty had halted in front of the piece she knew she’d been summoned to see. “You’ve arrived in the nick of time. We sent the letter ages ago.”

            “Your description failed to do it justice,” Letty answered, studying every line, every inlay detail, the types of woods used for the inlay, the shape of the legs, every detail she could catalogue in her head belonging to a Charleston master craftsman. “How did you come by it? I know you said it was purchased by the family in Charleston, but I thought it must be in pieces. And how did it get from Charleston to here?”

            “Oh, my, I hope my letter wasn’t misleading. The sideboard was a wedding gift after the Revolution to my great-great-great grandfather upon his marriage to our three times great grandmother. I believe Mr. Edmund was the gift-giver. We have a letter somewhere in which he hopes our relatives will enjoy the sideboard for many years, his best felicitations to a true patriot, et cetera. The letter has always been in the bottom of the silverware drawer, but we decided to keep it with other family papers while Ryman is working on our history. He’s almost done, I’m afraid. We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him for a twelve month.” She smiled apologetically, and Letty noticed a few missing teeth. “He refuses to leave his room while he’s writing, except for trips to the necessary.” She blushed at her reference to a bodily function.

            “May I ask your name? I couldn’t quite make it out in your letter to the museum. I’m Letty Bally, the museum’s rep, as you know.”

            “My manners are sorely lacking! My stars, how sister will give me a hard time. I’m Genevieve Grayson, and my sister, who is awaiting us in the sun room, is Grace. I will make proper introductions when you can see her.”

            “Can see her?” The words slipped out before Letty could stop them.

            “She’s rather shy. You’ll understand, if she makes an appearance. I was hoping she’d stay after laying out the tea set, but it’s never a given. Even for me to see her.”  Shrugging, Genevieve led the way through a parlor loaded with more antiques, some of them so spectacular Letty wanted to get down on her hands and knees and pull out her magnifying glass.

            “Your family has quite the collection.” Letty tried to play it cool, but she knew her enthusiasm was showing. “Why, may I ask, are you willing to part with the sideboard?”

            They’d reached the sunroom. Tacked onto the house off the side, it was reached through a butler’s pantry that gleamed with sparkling sterling silver tea sets and serving pieces displayed in glass-fronted mahogany cupboards. Ferns hung from the ceiling, while potted plants lined the window sills. Colors from the stained glass window panes rioted against the white-washed walls. Displayed on a wicker table was a rose-painted tea set and silver salvers covered with scones and tiny sandwiches.

            “Grace is quite handy in the kitchen. It’s a good thing she is, or we’d starve. We can’t get kitchen help way out here, not anymore.” Genevieve sighed as she glanced at the chairs flanking the table. “I’m afraid Grace is reluctant to make an appearance. I hope you won’t mind too much.”

            “Your brother never eats with you two?”

            “Oh, no, as I said, not until the family history is complete. That’s why we asked if you’d like to see the sideboard, I mean, your museum, of course. We understand it has the highest standards, and as we’re rather taken with its history, we’d like it to have a home where as many people as possible can enjoy its beauty. Beauty fades if it’s not admired, don’t you find? Like a pretty girl who withers without the watering of compliments.”

            Sinking into the wicker chair to the right of Genevieve’s, Letty didn’t know what to make of such a strange statement. All she could muster was a noncommittal “ummm.”

            Pouring the tea, Genevieve chattered on. “I do get tired of having no one to talk to half the time, but please be assured, dear Miss Bally, that my siblings and I are in complete agreement about the sideboard leaving us. You must save it.”

            Letty let that sink in for a bit. Over the tea cup she’d raised to her lips, taking care not to drink anything, she studied her hostess. Her face, unlined but unnaturally pale, was plain enough to be called homely. Her lips, though thin, could have been helped by lipstick, and her eyes by liner and mascara. After making such a judgment, Letty was embarrassingly aware of her own lack of makeup. She’d never thought it necessary before, but now she wondered how she appeared to others.

            “Scone, Miss Bally?” Genevieve tapped the edge of a silver platter.  “They’re a particular specialty of my sister.”

            “In a moment,” Letty stalled. The colored design of a drooping lily reflected on Genevieve’s chest. “I’d like to know what else you have to authenticate the sideboard. Do you know the name of the maker?”

            “But of course. I have everything in an envelope for you, which I will retrieve from my brother’s room. Now, there’s something else I must explain before our time is up.” Glancing at the stained glass window that was reflecting on her breast, Genevieve frowned.  “Grayson must be closer than I thought to his last sentence. We must hurry.”

            “Why?” The sunroom was growing hotter, and Letty wished she could ask about opening a window, but they seemed to be nailed shut.

            “There’s no easy way to tell you this, so I guess I must just lay it all out. Spill the beans, so to say.”  With a worried glance up at the ceiling, Genevieve cleared her throat as if it hurt her. “I hope Grace is getting ready. Time is shorter than I thought.”

            Letty had no idea what was making Genevieve so nervous, but the woman’s anxiety level was increasing by the second. “What do you mean, time is shorter?”

            Genevieve flinched. “I can’t really explain. Believe me when I say I know this sounds a bit, um, crazy, but we chose you because of your reputation. That you understand the old ways of things that have lived a long and useful life. We asked many pieces of furniture and they all said, to a piece, that you could be trusted.”

            “I’m flattered, but I hardly think furniture can talk.”  She was gathering her briefcase and purse closer, readying herself to jump up and run. This woman was certifiable, Letty was sure of it.

            “But it does. It lives and breathes as much as you and I. With memories, loves, hates, and a desire to live. But all lives come to an end, and that’s true of the sideboard. It won’t survive this ending, but the other pieces in this house will live on, with us, wherever we land in the next few minutes. We’re never sure, but there’s always a place waiting for us.”

            Letty could only stare, digging her nails into her palms to keep from laughing and crying. Why the heck hadn’t she kept on driving this evening? What on earth possessed her to pull into that dirt driveway when she’d seen the house was deserted looking?

            “We only have so many lives to relive, you see, and the sideboard was our first piece. We’re inordinately fond of it, because it’s lived with us all of our lives, of course. We’d like you to save it. Make sure it ends up where it’ll be appreciated and admired. It’s rather vain, you see, because we’ve always told it it’s so special and gorgeous, which it is, you must admit.” Genevieve’s smile was sad and sweet, and Letty found herself almost believing Genevieve believed what she was saying.

            “I don’t see how that’s possible, that furniture, that things, have a soul, have feelings, can live or die. I’m sorry, but I really must be going. Please accept my apologies and give my regards to your brother and sister.” Briefcase tucked under her arm, slinging her purse over her shoulder, Letty rose.

            Then she heard it. A soft murmur of voices, high, low, and in between. At first, she thought they were coming from upstairs, but then she realized it was all over the house, top to bottom. A lone voice stood out from the rest, masculine, rusty-sounding, and definitely excited.

            “Grace, Genevieve, it’s finished! Are you ready? I am! Can’t wait to start the next one!”

            “That’s Grayson,” Genevieve explained, sounding apologetic.  “Just as I feared. How I wish we’d had more time. You’re just as you were described to us, and I know the sideboard will be fine in your hands.”

            “How? I don’t have a company check on me, I need to arrange transport back to the museum for a final appraisal, there’re a ton of steps to take before the museum assumes ownership!”  Pausing in the gilt-flocked wallpapered foyer, Letty took a final glance at Genevieve. 

            Smiling, the tiny woman raised one thin hand and waved. “So lovely meeting you. Don’t forget us, will you? I mean, you never got to meet Grace or Grayson. . .”  Turning her face towards the ceiling, it appeared that Genevieve was listening.  “Yes, I know. You must leave now, Miss Bally. Cherish our dear friend. I do so regret we can’t take it with us, but you will give it a good and loving home. Remember that it likes orange oil now and then!”

            The front door sprang open by itself, and Letty decided to run. Heaven knew what was coming next, but she didn’t think she’d like it.  Racing down the steps, Letty stumbled and tripped at the bottom. Sprawled in the dirt, she looked at the house, half expecting Genevieve to come running after her with a butcher knife in her hand.

            Instead, the kudzu grew and entwined even faster around the house than Letty could believe. Every inch of the claptrap siding sank beneath the vine’s weight. Even so, she could smell smoke. An acrid, thick smoke, which curled from beneath the kudzu like licks of cold air.

Shivering, Letty inched backwards on her fanny, unable to take her eyes from the curls of smoke escaping the green rectangle of house.

            Her car. Could she reach it? Clearly, the house was on fire. Would she be able to get the Toyota to move now? Should she run back inside and try to drag Genevieve out with her? Call 911 for a fire truck? Pausing in her scramble, Letty dumped the contents of her purse on the ground and fumbled for her cell. Even as she opened it, she remembered the lack of cell tower signal in the area, and the reason she hadn’t called ahead about the appointment. Maybe she could find a store or gas station at the next exit off the interstate and call from there. 

            Her mind racing, Letty didn’t notice at first the sideboard at her side. As she struggled to her feet, she grasped its edge to steady herself.

            “What…?” Letty gasped when she realized what she held.

            It was there, beside her. The Charleston sideboard. Patting it with both hands, Letty assured herself she wasn’t dreaming. Gleaming in the setting sun, the sideboard shone with a breathtaking beauty. Even as Letty admired it, she felt something else coming through her hands from the wood beneath them. At first, she thought it was her imagination, but then she realized, she couldn’t get her hands off the furniture.  As if held by a big magnet, her hands tingled, then she felt vibrations running from them, through her whole body. Music. It was a form of music, a song she’d never heard. And it hummed through her with a language she instantly understood.

            Don’t be afraid, it said. They’re just moving on. I am yours now, my time with them is finished.

            Letty couldn’t have screamed if she’d wanted to. Nodding, she accepting the message for what it was, a declaration of truth. “I won’t take you to the museum,” she promised out loud. “Only I will know your story.  Will you tell me the whole thing?”

            It may take a lifetime, the sideboard answered. It will be my honor and privilege. Miss Genevieve gave me instructions on how to carry on, in honesty and truth.

            Nodding, Letty acknowledged the statement. “And I will do the same with you.” 

            Her hands released, Letty knew exactly where to start. She dialed a number she had in her contacts list, for a special transport that specialized in delicate objects. She tried to text a message. After a quick description and directions to the house, Letty hung up.  The message had gone through. Turning from the sideboard, she saw the house was a pile of smoking rubble. The conflagration had consumed every inch in the space of minutes. She’d never have been able to rescue Genevieve or anyone else.

            With one hand resting lightly on the sideboard, she felt its sadness. “I am sorry for your loss,” she murmured. “So many years. But there’s good to come.”

            She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did. Without knowing how or why she came by the knowledge, she was sure she’d have a successful career dealing in antique American decorative arts. Instead of collecting for the museum, she’d find homes for objects that still needed to be loved, to be admired, to be used by living human beings. And her sideboard would be with her through it all, grounding her, keeping her focused on her goals. To make sure these precious objects were loved. She settled into her car to wait. The night passed, but she never felt alone or afraid. The sideboard was there to keep her company.

            As the special transport truck pulled into the driveway the next morning, Letty emailed her resignation letter to the museum. No explanation necessary. She was done collecting furniture to put it in isolation, lonely and unnecessary.

            The transport driver had brought other men to help load, being accustomed to the museum’s requirements. What he wasn’t prepared for were the instructions he received.

            “Deliver to this address.”  Letty handed him a piece of paper. Her parent would be happy to store the sideboard until Letty got her business address up and running. She knew they’d be thrilled at her new adventure. Maybe she’d even start wearing makeup and dressing for success, she chuckled silently as the transport disappeared back to the Interstate highway.

            This time her car was able to leave the smoldering remains of the house with no problem. As Letty merged into highway traffic, she wondered where Genevieve and her siblings ended up with their precious friends, the antiques that had surrounded them.

            The family that had squabbled for years over who was to pay the tax bill on the old family homestead was notified of its fiery destruction. None of them grieved over its loss. They finally agreed to sell the remaining land to a gas station that would erect a huge sign over the interstate to draw in gas-hungry drivers and their cars. One day during excavation for the gas tanks, a silver cake knife, untarnished and intact, would be turned up. The bulldozer operator would take it home to his wife, who was thrilled to own something so beautiful.  She would use it to served their daughter’s seventh birthday cake, and hold on to it for many years to be passed down in the family.  Everyone loved it.