SHADOW READS

Dark Little Stories

Marilyn M Schulz

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PUBLISHED BY:

Marilyn M Schulz

Shadow Reads

Dark Little Stories

Cover Art:

Screenshot from the film Creature from the Haunted Sea

Date June 1961, Screen Capture by Roger Corman

Cover background pattern provided by: grsites.com

(use of the image does not imply endorsement)

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

* * * * *

SHADOW READS

Dark Little Stories

* * * * *

KNITTING THE OLD DAYS

Great-grandma finished her knitting the day before she died. No one noticed, people just came and went with their sympathy. But they knew she loved her knitting, so no one thought it strange when I put it there in the coffin.

She was German, you know, a real one from Germany. She made it through both big wars. Not so her family. Her husband was Jewish and got taken by the Nazis along with his children. It was a forbidden topic at our house, but sometimes she would tell me about it.

The last few years were hard on Great-grandma. Ruffians in the neighborhood would steal her Social Security checks. They’d knock her down and take her groceries too. She tried to fight back, but it was a bitter topic in the end. She said in the old days, with the old ways, a woman was safe on the streets.

Great-grandma always did have spirit, even after losing two world wars. She could swear like a soldier and had the best stories on a boring Sunday afternoon. I would listen for hours as I watched her knit away.

All things considered, she preferred it back then. Most people thought she wouldn't talk about it because of sorrow, but I knew better. She turned him in, you know, her husband. He cheated on her. She knew, because he was married when she met him, and he cheated on his first wife too. She took care of his brats by his first marriage, and did not mourn when they hauled them away.

Great-grandma finished her knitting and it's best to be buried, sealed away under ground just like her old bones. Who would have thought the old woman still knew how to make a swastika anymore, let along knit one.

* * * * *

Off the Beaten Path

The theater was well-known, if off the beaten path. Men took their mistresses there, and the place had a certain romantic infamy. Now it had become nuevo-chic, and all sorts of chic-wannabes went there. It ruined it for those trying to keep a forbidden trist a good secret, but that’s how these things work.

That’s why the couple went there in fact: James and Melinda. They were hoping to regain some sort of spark, some sort of interest in what had become not only boring, but disdainful: their marriage.

The play ended, it was boring too. Perfect. It seemed only insult to their marriage, which had become their mutual injury. They were the last ones out. It was easier that way, rather than discussing the play with others who might have just been there for that reason.

Outside, the taxis had already come and gone. A man approached them, well dressed, quite handsome. He pushed the rich couple into an alley with a hand still in his pocket. “In there, now, I insist.”

Normally, Melinda would have protested, but this was better than talking to her husband, she guessed.

But then the man put the gun to her head. He said very bluntly, “Your money and jewels, or she dies!”

Melinda just dropped her handbag and laughed.

So did her husband.

She said, "Help yourself. You stupid bastard, killing me would be a favor to this son of a bitch, may God forgive my language."

The man with the gun looked uncertain. The doubt on his face was plain even in the dimness of the theater lights, still on round the corner.

When the lights suddenly snapped off, the crook seemed to flinch.

She continued, "He's been trying to kill me for months, just hasn't had the balls to pull the trigger. He gets all my money if I'm dead. I’d cut him out of the will if I could, but thanks to my father, I’m stuck.”

The crook turned to James. James only shrugged.

The crook didn’t know what to do next.

James said, “She wanted to be a nun, her father wanted her to be married, carry on the family line, keep the money in the family name, really. How hard was that?”

“Why not just divorce then, why not just leave him?” the crook asked.

James answered, “To inherit, we had to marry within the Church, and raise our children to be Catholic. The old man made us sign certain things. He thought of everything, that’s why he was so successful in everything he did.”

The crook nodded. “Catholic, no divorce then.”

James said, “Just so. All the money is in trust, so she can't just fork it over to the Church or charity either. It’s meant for the old man’s grandchildren. I should have been suspicious that he didn’t trust his own daughter.”

The crook lowered the gun from her head, but still pointed it between the two of them. “You have kids then?”

James laughed then. “Not a one.”

She said, jerkily as she pulled on her gloves, “I control the income from the trust, and the funds themselves as well. He married me for money, but when he found out there wasn’t much up front, then he lost interest. Oh, he has kids all right, but none of them related to my dear-departed father.”

“Dear-departed, listen to that. She hated the old man as much as I did. You know I had to change my own family name so the old man’s line could go on.”

She said, “You know that had to do with the business as much as anything else. The stockholders like the idea of a Barett running the show from generation to generation.”

“Barett?” the crook said, looking at his own gun.

Fine action, smooth as silk, multiple rounds in a matter of seconds. Very discrete, very effective. Best small-caliber pistols in the world. He’d been in love with guns since the War.

“Oh, now you’re interested,” she snapped.

James said, “Now you see what I have to put up with? She controls the money all right. We have a big house, but no servants at all, and she keeps it that way for spite. I live like a cock roach, feeding off her crumbs. Go ahead and shoot her, I hate her. When she’s dead, I’ll make it worth—”

“You could get a job, no one is stopping you.”

“I gave up everything for you. Any career options I had are long gone. They all say to go work for your father’s company, and they question why I can’t find success there. I hate guns, you know that.”

She said sarcastically, “Everybody knows that, you’ve said it often enough. You just like the money that comes from them.”

“Why not turn him in then,” the crook said.

They both turn on him then, “What do you mean?”

“How long have you been married?” the crook said, sarcastically.

“Forever,” they said, not looking at each other. She added, “Eleven years.”

“Why not turn him in if he’s trying to kill you?”

James laughed. “Have to have proof, and she has none.”

Bad sign. No denials.

But the crook knew how these things worked. He said to her, “But you could file a report at least, then it would be on record and if anything happened, they would look first at him.” He pointed his gun at James now.

She contemplated, “I hadn’t thought of that.”

The crook continued, “But there are other options. You’re young enough, you could still have children.”

“Even if we ignored the Church, my father’s will said no divorce, and besides, I’m not that kind of woman. I took a vow, I’ll stick with it. Consider it my punishment for making a bad decision.”

“But if he was dead? Would you marry again?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

James said, “Hey, wait a minute—“

She said, “How much?”

James backed away, but there was nowhere to go, so he edged around the other way. They didn’t seem to notice in their bargaining.

The crook said, “I come cheap. You marry me after he’s dead. Poor sap was killed in a robbery attempt trying to protect his wife. You didn’t see my face, it was dark and you were upset.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

The crook shrugged, “We have a mutual secret. I turn on you, you turn on me, we both end up on Death Row.”

James turned to run toward the street and escape, but he tripped over her purse.

It seemed fitting that when the cops finally came, there was nothing there inside her bag as she said, “The crook got away, I’m afraid. If only my husband carried one of my father’s guns. . .”

* * * * *

IT WAS ALWAYS MY HOUSE

Lenora Mansfield’s great-grandfather bought some of this land and the rest he took from the natives.

Her grandfather built the grand house and stables, developing the land on the backs of hundreds of slaves.

Lenora Mansfield’s father was rich, he was a plantation owner. The idea that he owned a great many slaves totally escaped her notice. The house was lovely and huge, the gardens expansive, and her wedding would be the talk of the land for sometime to come.

Lenora Mansfield Chalmers inherited her father’s plantation and everything—including everyone—on it. That really meant that her husband inherited it all, for she was a pretty little thing without much thought in her head, but what to wear for dinner tomorrow.

Lucky for her he was not an evil man, no more than any other man of his sort around here, and did not take advantage. He left her pregnant when he marched off to fight the Yankees. No one thought it would be the last time she would ever see him, including himself, so how could he have prepared her?

She lost the baby when she heard the news. It would have been a son, they said, which made it all the more tragic. The death of his family line, and most probably her own, left her weak and grieving.

Then the Yankees came soon after and with them they brought disrespect and fever. They took her house, but let her stay, which she figured rightly would be the death of herself as well as to her pride.

They didn’t pay much attention to her in any case, being too concerned in their busy affairs of making war on all that she held dear. She had no plans on talking to them anyway.

She just drifted around the halls and bedrooms, and the ballroom too, same as she ever did, thinking of happier days. Sometimes she tried on her dresses, but that was difficult without the help of a servant.

Sometimes she arranged her hair or tried on her jewelry, but when the Yankees found it, they took it all away. She suspected it wasn’t for the war at all, and expected it was just thieving.

She played the piano, though not very well, and made sure the chandeliers were kept clean and sparkling, even though she often had to dust them herself. The tinkling sound of the crystals she liked very much because the Yankees found it so annoying.

She replaced the books they left out from her father’s library, and she made sure the portrait of her husband in his Confederate uniform was kept in a place of honor in their bedroom after the Yankees had taken it down from the living room mantel.

She did her best to ignore the Yankees and the women who came and called themselves their Yankee wives, even though some, she was quite sure, were not. It was too much to bear, and for once Lenora Mansfield Chalmers was glad her father and mother were not there to see it unfold.

It took long years for the war to be over. It did not end as intended. The slaves were gone, the land had not been harvested in years, and wild vines and weeds threatened to overgrow everywhere.

She had no recourse but to take in boarders to her father’s house. Most were men of ill-repute who carried their worldly belongings in carpet bags.

The women were worse, she soon discovered. Many of low-moral fiber—in fact, none at all. She soon found they were conducting the world’s oldest business there under her very roof.

Thankfully, that did not last for long, as she could not bear their presence. Nor did she have enough money to pay the slaves whose labor she used to take for granted. The new servants did not do as they were told, nor did they stay for long anyway.

People didn’t believe in tradition anymore—at least, not the people around here. All the old society was gone, along with the people who lived it, and that way of life seemed to be lost along with the war.

The ancestral family home was then leased to a member of the British peerage, who decided that a long visit in the American South was just what he needed. Lenora soon suspected that he had done something unwholesome back in his own ancestral home and was in exile for some while and some reason.

But servants came again, ones with proper manners. Books were set upon the shelves as they should be, everything was properly dusted, and her husband’s portrait again was set above the mantel.

In fact, the portraits of her parents were cleaned and rehung as well. She was allowed to play the piano and often took tea with the foreign ladies and gentlemen, though she seldom had anything to offer to their own conversation.

The parties were of particular interest, and Lenora attended sometimes. She mourned the idea of her own wardrobe though: It was woefully out of fashion. But no one seemed to notice. They were polite to the point of avoidance. Gradually, she couldn’t bear the disregard of everything that had once been so important to her, and then only watched the festivities from a distance.

When the British went home after years of comfort and harmony, the soldiers came again. Lenora tried hard not to despair. No Yankees now, but men of breeding and gentility. Southern gentlemen, wearing the strange new uniform of the Union, but acting as if nothing had happened.

Lenora didn’t understand politics, but she did understand there was another war, Spanish-American, they called it. It didn’t last for long, and soon the men were drinking to excess, speaking of their victories in a place called Cuba, and smoking huge cigars.

Lenora retired to the upstairs then, and sometimes it felt like she was meant to stay there for years.

One day she was aware of a tremendous noise, as if a thunderstorm was coming. Instead it was a group of horseless carriages, but different. Trucks, they were called, laden with single beds and supplies. The house had been requisitioned again, this time it was to be a sanatorium for the casualties of another war.

This one was more horrible than before. Many men were blind, some burned beyond human recognition, and many were simply unable to speak or make any kind of human contact.

Lenora knew, because she tried sometimes, speaking to them softly so as not to disturb any others in the wards. To her great joy, some spoke back sometimes, softly too, as if they shared a secret.

She heard of the horrors in Europe then. Gas attacks, trenches full of mud and blood, and whole fields and forests as horrific as Gettysburg.

She cried sometimes and helped out as well as she could. But there was nothing she could do for men who had given up on humanity. And there were those who could not see, not because they had no eyes, but because their souls had gone away long before their bodies had left this Earth. She wished she could have bidden them a fond farewell, but she had not that much sympathy left to lend them.

The sanatorium was there for years, and Lenora was glad when the last of the trucks finally rolled away. But some of the severely damaged soldiers stayed on, though their pain had subsided and their wounds had seemed to heal over. They kept to themselves, often wandering about as if they had no reason to go one way or another.

But at least her home was quiet again, though she now understood that it would never be the same. She rambled around the big old house, moving slower than she had ever before. Much of the grandeur was long since gone, and even the piano was no comfort.

Her husband’s portrait was her only solace now, and she sat near the fireplace, watching it for hours, mourning her lost baby too. Time went by unheeded.

Then it all started again. First the trucks with supplies, this time barbed wire and posts and lumber. The workmen fenced off much of what had once been acres of her mother’s beautiful gardens, and then they started marking off huge rectangles on the grounds.

Concrete came next, poured with no mercy over what had been lily ponds and flower beds and herbal patches. Then large shack-like buildings were set on top, with windows and doors and latrines.

Electricity was wired everywhere as well. It was better than anything the slaves ever had, but not nearly so nice as the plantation house.

Officers came next, military men again, and soldiers to stay in the house. It all seemed so familiar by now, and Lenora took up old habits again. Everything settled into a kind of truce, with her wandering about, replacing books, playing the piano which was woefully out of tune, but the portrait of her husband and even the portraits of her parents had been moved into the attic.

With the electrical lights put in, the crystal chandeliers had all been taken down as well. Where they were taken, she had no idea, and was too proud to ask.

Yankees again, with uniforms drab olive and tan, what would they know of how it had been? She had no interest in hearing their excuses for rudeness this time around.

But it got worse: Many men soon arrived, a truck or more every week. Mostly blond, in gray uniforms, or black, and most didn’t seem to speak English. Lenora watched them in the grounds below outside her bedroom window. She didn’t like going outside anymore, because they stared at her, she was sure.

She looked in the mirror sometimes, remembering how pretty she had once been. They were not kind, these foreigners, and she thought of her childhood again. Yes, she was a child then, even when she got married. Young and naive and glad of that.

She had seen so much since then. Men came and went, and wars did too. She would give anything to see a friendly face once again.

Downstairs sometimes, with only two fingers, she played once again: “Dixie.”

* * *

They said the house was haunted and had been since the mistress had died there when the Yankees took it from her in 1863. Drafts came and went in the halls and rooms, the chandeliers often tinkled, and books were said to move from here to there. It was a romantic notion, and harmless, so nobody working to save the historical site thought about it that much.

They fought to keep it from demolition for a new mall. They wanted to replace its grandeur from the plantation days, and how the women of the Historical Society got it so right was always a mystery. But it was perfect in every detail.

Perhaps it was a helping hand, unseen, but somehow, they just knew. . .

And finally restored to the place she remembered, Lenora Mansfield Chalmers could finally feel at home again in her own house. . . and finally rest in peace.

* * * * *

BLACK AND WHITE

They think I killed Rodney.

They say a woman of my age is bound to be frightened by someone like him. A large black man, a stranger to me, coming at such a frail old woman like me, right in my own home.

Condescending bast— Seventy isn't so old. All right, seventy-one, but who's counting these days? Who cares anymore? Why, that's not even old enough to retire for some people.

That is, if I’d ever worked. I wanted to, but—

"Officer, would you mind wiping your feet when you come in here? This rug is so old and worn, it couldn't bear a really thorough scrubbing, and besides, my knees aren't what they used to be."

My Gerald never liked the idea of his wife working. I'll take care of you, he said, but where is he now? Dead in the kitchen, that selfish—

"Oh, dear, must you put that powder everywhere? Be careful! Don't get it between the piano keys, they'll stick. It's an antique, quite old and dear."

Well, there was that time in the war, when I worked in the dance hall. But dancing wasn't work really, not when I loved it so. And it was for the boys, for those brave soldiers soon going over to who knows where.

I was so young then, only sixteen. Not so young, but young enough to believe a man when he said he loved me. A final goodbye before he marched off to war.

"I made you some tea, Officers, I'm afraid I don't have any coffee, but it's lovely Earl Grey, a nice pick-me-up. It’s English, it’s all that I have. Wait, I'll get the rest of the sugar cookies. They were Gerald's favorites, I just baked the batch fresh last night, but he won't be needing them now."

Wars aren't like they used to be, not with the whole country pitching in together. World Wars they called them then, not like these last few pitiful excuses to kill your fellow man.

How many has there been since? Korea. Vietnam. Countless more local conflicts. How many young girls have given their brave soldiers a night to remember before the men marched off to kill or die trying?

Die. Rodney is dead. I wonder why Gerald never found out about my Rodney? Why should he have cared now anyway? It must have been because we had no children of my own. I couldn’t after. . .

Maybe seeing him here, face to face, was just too much. Is that why Gerald did it? Was it Rodney's fault for wanting to see me? That poor innocent boy.

A man now really, with his own family, but always a boy to me. Everyone is entitled to a few mistakes, especially when they are young. So he got into a little trouble with the law, that was years ago. No one should have to keep paying for things they did years ago. Don’ t I know that better than anyone else.

"No, I don't have any money here. Well, some change from Gerald's pension check. It's enough for groceries, but not enough to rob for. I don't think that was. . . Well, if you say so, Officer."

They treat a body so shabbily. Just toss it into the bag and zip it up. The last thing you see is the face. That mask of death, so much like a look of far away longing. Something lost, empty eyes searching. I wonder if he was looking for the answer? It's always the same question: Why?

I hope they clean up that chalk when they're done, I haven't the faintest idea how one gets that sort of thing out of a carpet.

I wonder if they are doing the same thing to Gerald in the kitchen? Fancy them thinking me too frail to tend to my own husband. I gave birth on my own with a great deal of difficulty, and after that, a little blood on the floor is nothing. I hope he doesn't stain the linoleum, Gerald always insisted on a shiny, spotless kitchen floor.

Was it my fault Gerald was so excitable? You'd think I was the only woman who had ever had relations before her marriage. It was war then, times were different, you didn't know if there would even be a tomorrow.

Like he was a virgin when we got married, that judgmental son of a—

"No jewelry, Officer, although I have this lovely watch my husband bought me for our fortieth wedding anniversary. I don't know how much it's worth, but see the lovely, little diamonds on either side. The diamonds aren’t real. Gerald thought I didn’t know, I’m sure, but I don’t suppose there’s any harm in admitting that now."

Come to think of it, maybe he was a virgin. Or close to it. Not so good in the sack, my husband, but at least it didn't last long. Not like the other time. I will always remember that first time, and the second, not an hour after. I couldn't walk right for a week, didn't want to walk for a week, in fact, just wanted to stay there in bed and savor. . .

But that was only that one night. Surely after so long a time, a girl could claim virginity again, especially when she did it for her country in the first place.

Was that really why I did it? Fancy thinking about it again, I had put it right out of my mind for so long now. But, I can still picture that face as if it were only yesterday. Carved and perfect, like one of those statues. And his words, slow and Southern, that smooth, deep voice—

"Gerald has some high blood pressure medicine, and I have iron pills and some vitamin tonic. No other drugs except the usual things like aspirin and cough drops, Officer. Would you like to see the medicine cabinet? It’s just upstairs in the bathroom there."

Besides, Gerald didn't seem to notice much on our wedding night. I think he was mostly drunk. But then, he never did seem to notice me there during relations. In and out and over to sleep. It must have been something he read about on the treatment of proper ladies. Or maybe it was the boys down at work and what they kept asking. Or something his mother told him.

I can just hear her now in that pinched whine of hers: "Well-bred young ladies do not enjoy private relations. They do their duty, just like men, and a true gentleman must do his duty quickly, so as not to overly inconvenience his wife. Find your base pleasures elsewhere, boy, a well-bred lady is for children, not lust."

The old bitch probably did it a grand total of once herself, and out sprang my Gerald. No wonder his father took after the maids. And waitresses. And secretaries. And towards the end, even hookers.

No, sex with Gerald was nothing to write home about. Not like the other time. The time when Rodney was conceived. . .

"It's his service revolver, Officer. The one he got in the big war, World War II. He was a pilot, you know. A flyer for the RAF over France and Germany. He was decorated three times, once for being wounded. That’s how I met him. My family sent me to England to help out over there."

Rodney's father was a simple man, not scheming or clever like Gerald, and as beautiful as I have ever seen. Infantry support, front lines driving trucks, in line to be one of the first to die. Dive-bombed by pilots just like Gerald, only for the other side.

A brave man, facing danger right up front, doing what he had to do. Not like Gerald, riding high in the pristine clouds, bombing, killing from a distance.

Killing without thought of who or what you are destroying. And the medals for meeting danger head on and not flinching. Not so hard from such an altitude when you didn't have to look someone right in the eye.

And not so brave when it came time to face the truth.

"I believe he always kept it loaded and ready to fire. We have no children, so he never worried about accidents of that sort. Tragic when a child is killed. I saw it in the war in London. He was always cleaning it, talking about the war and his medals and all his grand plans. He felt it was his duty to protect our home now, with the neighborhood going the way it— I’m sorry, Officer, none of that is your fault."

I never expected Rodney to show up here after all this time. Who'd have thought he would want to see his mother? Not that I could be a real mother to him, not in those days. And especially not as he was, so tiny, and so helpless, same as me. But I always kept track of my boy, mother's always do, I suppose.

"No, he must have been cleaning it. Gerald kept the gun in the bedroom, in the drawer next to his side of the bed. It was there with his medals. He liked them nearby, he used to wear them on his pajamas when we— Oh, dear! I didn’t mean to say that, never mind. . ."

What do they call themselves now? Black, Afro-American, African Americans? We had other words for them back then. Gerald had other words for Rodney now.

Horrible, hurtful words. And words for me, too.

That was no reason to shoot Rodney. It was not his fault, the way he came into this world. I am not ashamed that during all that killing back then, that I could bring a life into this world. It was nobody's fault, except those who would make war and take innocent lives.

Innocent. My Rodney didn't do anything wrong. He was beautiful, he looked just like his father, and had beautiful children of his own now. He just wanted to know about his father. What orphan wouldn't?

Gerald really wanted to kill me, I could see that. But this hurt me more, and he could see that too. He just laughed and shot my boy and laughed some more as he took a shot at me as well.

He isn't laughing anymore.

"A struggle? You think the intruder stabbed my husband and he would have killed me too, if my husband hadn’t shot him first in his last dying breaths? I don't feel lucky, I feel sick. I need to lie down a bit, Officer. Could I make a statement some other time?"

I know Rodney will understand. He was brave, just like his Daddy must have been. My boy faced Gerald and died for it. No medals for Rodney or his father before, just some cold grave with someone left behind who loved him.

Zipped up in a bag and shipped back home.

They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Rodney was so much like his father, carved ebony features, deep voice, sweet disposition. Whoever raised him did a fine job. I still wish it could have been me.

Who'd have thought that my dear boy could make it through yet another senseless war, just to be shot in his own mother's house.

Oh dear, are they taking my best carving knife? I got that set for a wedding present, a family heirloom.

"Evidence? Will I get it back, do you suppose? I've been using it for years, Officer, it was his mother's. . ."

Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. Not sure I’ll be carving a roast anytime soon.

Sometimes our options are so simple in this life, black and white really. Rodney knew his duty, just like his Daddy.

And just like me. So maybe I got something else from Rodney's father: I looked danger in the face and did what I had to do.

My husband, Gerald, was British, I’m sure he would have understood that too. In the end.

* * * * *

IT RUNS IN THE FAMILY

Who would have thought the old woman could roll that fast? I didn't oil her wheels for weeks. She complained, but I told her the chair was old, that's why it squeaked that way. I knew she was too cheap to get a new one, and she complained all the time anyway.

I told her to be careful too—even told her so in public. Told her that she wouldn't be able to get out of the way fast enough in an emergency. Like a traffic accident. But the old woman never listens to me, such a stubborn old boot.

After all, I wouldn't want anything to happen to my favorite Auntie.

My favorite, rich, invalid Auntie.

My last living relative who was too cheap to pay a lawyer to make a will. I’m attentive, I know these things. That’s what nieces should do, especially when their own parents are long dead and were poor even longer. Closest living relative inherits, that’s the law here.

But if anything happened to dear Auntie, that would leave me all alone in the world with no one to care about what I did, or who I was with, or where I went, or how I spent her money.

Here it comes. . . wait for it. . .

Damnation! Missed!

She must have a guardian angel.

* * *

Devil is more like it. Rumor has it that she off’ed her three husbands. That's how she got all the money. Planted them all in the mausoleum out back without an autopsy and the last one was the family doctor.

Pretty convenient, that. He must have got a bit to greedy. Must have been stupid too. Just like mine, only mine were better liars. I thought they were the ones with money. More fool me, given that my own mother had multiple husbands too. . .

Well, murder must run in the family.

But this time, I don't know what happened. Maybe it was just that idiot, Bob. He’s good looking, it’s true, and quite a fun guy, but he couldn't run over the old woman on a bet.

He completely missed, didn't even swerve to catch her coming back. He ran over me instead, that stupid jerk.

I wish he'd get here, where does he go all the time.

He’s late with my lunch, it’s long past noon.

My wheels need to be oiled, I hate this squeaking.

Here he comes now, finally.

What's he doing over there with Auntie?

What's she giving him? Money?

Money! Hey, that’s all mine!

Why is he looking at me that way?

What a wicked grin, makes my skin crawl, the both of them.

Hey, why is he getting into his car?.

Hey, wait! What are you doing?

Watch out! I could have been killed.

Why is the old woman laughing like that?

* * * * *

The Right to Kill

The right to die, a new law.

Nice state, making it so simple for me. Nice funeral too. Now he's gone, dead, he can't fork out any more money, you ghouls! Come on in to mourn the wonderful man, so many old friends, but not much left for you.

Another old fuddy with a eulogy?

Put your teeth in, for God's sakes! I swear, I will scream if one more old crow stands up and mumbles out a boring story about the dearly departed.

Not so dear to me, but worth lots of cash, my old cousin Herbert. I was his closest relative, the only family here to mourn.

Too bad, his going so quickly.

No one expected it, least of all him.

Quiet, in his sleep, how nice.

I might puke if I have to hear, "It's so tragic, such a good man," one more time.

They expected me to be the one, you know. Planted first six feet under and no one to grieve. But not so, I feel fine. In fact, never better.

A bit of green can do wonders. A lot of green can work miracles. A hefty bank roll comes through where modern medicine fails. I wonder if I could patent that? Why bother, I got mine, who cares about anybody else?

Oh, man! Another old bat, another tear-stained speech about our Herbie with the great big heart. Big and kind and no longer beating. So many friends here, so many people he helped out. What a guy, that Herbie, always giving to those less fortunate. Bunch of beggars. My deepest sympathies to the family.

Family, that's me, and only me. And after this boring funeral service, I get it all. Tea and sympathy and millions and millions. I'll say it again, millions and millions. My millions. All those charities with their hands out can just get lost. I'm not the sap that Herbie was. I know what to do with money, and it has nothing to do with anyone else.

It was too easy with the new law, a terminally ill person can get a deadly prescription from the doctor to end the torment. You decide, it's your pain, and your life. Your limited life. The humane solution, one swallow and out goes you.

Out goes the thorn in my side. Where does it hurt? No where, doc, I have no pain what-so-ever. I'm cured, it's a miracle, I tell you! The miracle is my simple cousin, too trusting, much too generous. Somebody down there likes me.

Herbie always did like oysters, he just didn't know they would be his last meal. Let me cook for you, Herbie, I need to keep busy in my last days. Quite considerate of him, being such a pig. I'll have to put some oysters in there with him.

Oh, but my delicate condition, so ill, in so much pain. Maybe I'll pay someone else to put oysters on his grave. Look at them staring at me, wondering when I'm going to kick off. Well, not for some time, you old crows. It's my money now, I worked for it: planned, and faked, and pleaded.

My high school friend, Janice, works in the lab, she just switched the test results. And voila, there I was, with three months to live, give or take a week. Some poor sap with terminal cancer is thinking she has another fifty years. And with that nice new law, the doctor said it was up to me to end it all when the pain got too bad.

Pain? Pain in the behind, you mean. That was Cousin Herbert, always forking over Grandfather's money to this charity or that. Was it my fault my own worthless parents blew every cent they every had?

I'm glad they're dead, saved me the trouble. Oh, the sadness, it's breaking my heart, if I had one, that is. Not on my side of the family and certainly not where money is concerned.

You would think with all that heart, dear Herbie would spare a few bits of change here and there for his only cousin. But no, not to me, I had to make my own way. It was good for my character. Heaven knows, I didn't get such a thing as integrity from my own folks. And what was my reward, terminal cancer.

Boo hoo, what a sap he was, trying to make my final months pleasant. Living my last days out on the estate, being catered to, pampered, spending his money. Nice car, Herbie, I love German cars. Thank you, I love to drive around and look at all the things I won't be seeing when I'm dead. Neither will you.

Careful, dab at the eyes, that way they'll think the convulsions are from sorrow, not laughter.

Oh, good, done at last. Now, it's on to the cemetery, then the mansion where I will get the sympathy call from the lawyer. Careful, dodge the old crows, they smell carrion, I can tell. Won't they be disappointed when I don't instantly kick off.

Herbie already told me I would get the lion's share, in the odd chance that something happened to him, he wanted my last days to be pleasant. He knew I’d do the right thing in the end as well. Mistake on his part: big heart, little brain, our Herbie.

How much is left, I wonder? I will have such a nice time counting it. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the millions don’t get us, spending it must.

Shake hands, look forlorn. Yes, come into this lovely home. My home now, but keep your hands off the knick-knacks, they may be worth something. I thought there would be more food. Too sickening, can I get out of here? There's a new band playing at the Pastime tonight.

"A call for me in the den? You think it's the executor of Mr. Herbert's estate? Be right there, Jameson, make sure the guests are attended, please. More caviar, find another crate of Champagne."

Watch out, here comes another couple of charity matrons. Sorry, babes, the cash is mine. Well, I will certainly contemplate your fine charity, maybe when I'm laying on the beach somewhere. Maybe not.

"Excuse me, I have a call." The great escape.

"Yes, sir, you have the will there? A new will? I wasn't aware of. . . Oh, I see. . . Are you sure?"

I need another drink. Where is that worthless butler when you need him?

Now what am I going to do?

How am I going to pay off Janice?

Who would have thought Herbie could be so selfish, leaving all his beautiful money to charity, since I was just going to die in a few months anyway.

A life trust for my hospital bills, living off interest and the goodwill of the executor. Begging, just like all the others.

Can things get any worse?

Now, wait, interest on a few hundred million could add up.

And what if I get better? Can I contest the will? Sure, that's it, it'll be all right. But the big chunk of cash I need to pay off Janice. . .

Hmm? I might have to sell the car.

"A call from Dr. Wills? Wonder what he wants. Go check in the kitchen, Jameson. I want to take this alone."

"Yes, Doctor? Wrong tests? A mix up at the lab, how strange. What do you mean? I'm not dying. Well, that is wonderful news.

"No, no, I'm ecstatic, it's just the shock, especially after dear Herbie's demise. What's that, what is that you just said? You know I got the prescription filled?

"You need the drugs back? It's illegal for me to have them if I am not terminally ill? Let me get back to you on that, Dr. Wills."

I think I'm going to be sick. . .

* * * * *

THE ORIGINAL SIN

Eve had to be a blonde, why else would she fall for that line?

"Hey, babe, buy you an apple? Nobody’s watching, what could it hurt? Just take a bite, just one little nibble."

And from a snake like that, too.

Now where did I put the coffee creamer?

Someone called from the dining room. Her master and lord.

"Coming, sweetie, just cutting the pie."

Let's see, plates, clotted cream, napkins. Where's the knife, I thought I took it out. I swear, if my head wasn't attached—

"No, it's apple, some of your mother's apples."

Old crow, thought I was yanking her teeth when I was picking her apples. Just trying to get some decent fruit for a pie. It's not like it was for me, I don't even like pie.

Apple pie. God, country, and apple pie. This is America to me and mine. And before America and country, what was it all about then?

Eden, paradise, the Garden.

That's where it all started, women’s subservience. That's why God was so mad at Eve, because she ate his apple. He was probably saving it for a pie.

Momma beat me once for eating an apple, said she was saving it to put in a pie. Probably didn't matter, one little apple more or less, but it had to be done. It was the beating that girls needed to learn, discipline and order, just like her Momma beat her and probably her Momma before.

For generations little girls all start out the same. Start as apples, all firm and round and crisp. They end up same as pies, flat and soft and sweet. No fight left, no resistance, nothing to tempt a man but the promise of comfort.

Half-baked sometimes, but pies every one of us, all peeled and sliced up and poured into a sameness-mold.

"What? No, honey, I made coffee. . . Yeah, yeah, don’t go on. Sure, I can make tea, hold on."

And God drove them from Eden, while He said, "Adam, you shall rule over Eve. And Eve, you shall serve Adam and you will have pain in your child-bearing as well as the pain in your a—"

No, no, that's wrong. That couldn't have been why God was mad. Mad at taking an apple, what was I thinking? God was a man, men don't bake. Not for free anyway, not like women. If God wanted pie, why didn't He just say so. Eve would have made Him one as well.

"Here we go, warm apple pie and— No, I did the laundry today, the floors are tomorrow. Drink your tea before it gets cold and sip, dear, you'll burn yourself again. How's the pie?"

Apple pie. Apple seeds. Strychnine in apples seeds. Or is that cyanide? One of those, I read it somewhere. Agatha Christie would know, but who has time to read all those books? Maybe it's on the Internet. Women don't use computers, they're too stupid. It's not natural for a woman to use a machine.

Apples are natural though, God's curse to women. Strychnine, cyanide, it doesn't really matter. Either one will do.

"Thank you, dear, I know how much you like a flaky crust."

Oh, dear, all those crumbs. And slow down, you have teeth, some new ones, too. I know because my insurance helped pay for them. Must be nice, being a man of leisure while your wife works, in the house and out. Every time I have to pay your tab at the local tavern it takes another year of my life.

Excellent benefit though, life insurance. For self and for spouse.

Bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan as well. The lot of the modern woman, at least those of us still stuck between the old-fashioned world and the new.

Get a job, you deadbeat. And chew for heaven's sake!

"Oh, dear, no, don't worry, it's only apple pie, it won't stain."

Much. Momma's lace table cloth, Momma's pride and joy, Momma's shroud. She's probably turning over in her grave in her fine lace table cloth.

Grave. Rest in peace in your grave under the apple tree. I hope they all fall on your head, especially the ones with worms.

I swear, if I knew what a pig he could be, I wouldn't have married him. Momma was right, I shouldn't have married either of them. And if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't have been so quick to kill the other one.

Or Momma either.

“Have some more apple pie, dear.”

* * * * *

DREAM KILLER

Before a jury of the defandant’s peers, the counsel for the defense gave the closing argument. "Members of the jury, I would have you put yourself into the defendant's life of shocking nightmares and constant fear.

"We agree that the defendant is perfectly sane. She is a victim of dreams, of recurring terror where a man breaks into her home, assaults her brutally, then leaves her dying and in desperate despair.

"That she should see this man on her doorstep, waiting to gain entrance, possibly forcing himself in, would be a disturbing vision for anyone. But it was not a vision, the man was real, even if the dreams were not. It would be terrifying for anyone.

"In her state of mind, after months of dreaming, she had reason to fear the deceased, especially given the history of his violent nature to others. And though you may not believe in premonitions, in foresight, or the mind's eye, I remind you that the defendant has made no claim to any of that, or even to intuition. She does claim, however, the right to self-preservation, her very survival, and I ask you to believe that her fear for her life was real.

"I will say it again: My client feared for her life. She believed that this man was there to do her harm, as he had so many times in the nightmares. I say again, that self-preservation is only natural.

"You have also heard the psychological reports: truth serum, a lie detector test, and even hypnosis. All the defendant has submitted too, though most the prosecution has not attempted or accepted. Conclude then that my client is telling the truth, about the dreams, and about what happened the night the victim was killed, admittedly, by her own hand. It was self-defense."

It was the prosecutor’s turn after that. He spoke at length about women and emotions, about fear and character, or lack of. He spoke of the dangers of women living alone and women on their own, and the moral decline of the nation. Women may have just won the vote, but women were still women, after all, and perhaps the added responsibilities of citizenship now placed upon them was too much for many to handle.

The jury retired. Only twenty minutes later, the judge asked, "Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"

“We have a question, Your Honor,” said the Foreman.

He said, “Most unusual, what is it?”

“We wanted to know, I mean from the defendant? Could we ask a question?”

The prosecutor jumped up. “Most irregular, Your Honor, I object.”

The judge thought for a moment. “I agree, there is no precedent, but that doesn’t mean it is not allowed. Counselor?” he said to the lawyer for the defense.

“A moment, sir?”

The defense counselor leaned over and whispered to the client, “This could be a trick. If you answer, the prosecutor could claim you have opened the door, and he could demand cross-examination.”

She thought for a moment. “I have no choice. I had hoped it would not come to this. But I will answer.”

The judge agreed. The jury Foreman asked, “Are you still dreaming about the man?”

She rose to answer, but the prosecutor jumped up again. “The defendant must swear to tell the truth first.”

The defense said under his breath, “Here were go, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

She swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

The Foreman asked the question again.

The defendant said, “No, I am not dreaming about the man since the unfortunate incident.”

The Foreman said, “That’s all, Your Honor. Thank you.”

But as predicted, the prosecutor didn’t let it go at that. He demanded cross-examination.

The defense had no choice, but the judge warned the prosecutor, “You may only cross-examine on the topic at hand.”

The prosecutor said, “You are not having dreams anymore?”

“I didn’t say that,” the defendant said. “I said I am no longer dreaming about that man who first confronted me with danger.”

“You are dreaming though?” the prosecutor said.

“Objection,” yelled the defense. “Dreaming is not a crime.”

The judge thought for a moment. “I’ll allow it.”

The prosecutor repeated.

She said, “Yes, I am still dreaming, not of that man, but of another.”

“And who is this unlucky soul then?”

“I’m not sure I should say.”

“I insist,” the prosecutor said.

The judge sternly added, “You must answer.”

She said, “Very well. In some dreams, I could not see the face at all, but in other dreams, I believe that the man was. . . you.”

The courtroom burst into riotous noise: some alarm, some laughter.

The judge slammed down the gavel and nearly yelled himself: “The jury will disregard the reaction!”

The jury retired and returned in only a few moments more.

“You have reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor. We find the defendant not guilty. And we suggest the prosecutor leave town.”

The courtroom erupted again, but it was only a matter of time before the ladies of the jury took the defendant and her lawyer, who had just won her first case, out to tea in celebration.

* * * * *

THE BUTLER DID IT

"The police have arrived, madam,” the butler said. “Shall I show them into the drawing room?"

"That will be fine, Harland. Tell them I will be down in a moment."

The woman was dressed in a style that no longer had fashion—not since before the Great War started in 1914. She pushed at the whale bones and tried to take a deep breath, but she knew that had never been possible in such things. Still, corsets had their uses— and it always had to do with deception.

She glanced in the mirror, then shook her head. “No, too serene."

The image then scowled. “No, now you just look constipated.”

She tried the dewy-eyed look of a woman who had seen less of life than of romantic fiction.

"There that's much better."

With one last look around the masculine, yet pristine room, she casually dropped the gloves to the bed.

The policemen were kind. The elderly looking gentleman introduced himself as the senior detective. He offered her a seat in her own drawing room as he said, "Now madam, will you describe what happened?"

"It’s too terrible. I don’t really know the sordid details, I only know who did it."

"Who would that be, madam?" said the elderly detective. Older men knew how it was in the old days, and how an aging woman of an aging manor should be handled.

She said with no hesitation: "It was my husband's valet, of course. He's disappeared, as well as my jewels. He had the combination to the safe, you see. I’m afraid my husband was really too trusting."

"The valet?” said the detective. “How long had he been with your husband.”

“Only a few years. I never liked him, and now he’s gone and so are my jewels. I wish my husband was here, he’d know what to do.”

This clearly did not sit well with the detective, nor the rest of the police who were wandering around the room. In the old days, the police might not even be notified, just to avoid a scandal. Batty old women and their self-indulgent jewels: That was the look on the younger faces in the room.

The elderly detective said gently, “Why do you think it was the valet? I mean what makes you think he is gone for good?"

She rose and gracefully motioned them out of the room as she said, "Let me show you."

The woman of the manor led them to the valet's room. His references were impeccable, she told them. Probably forged, she now realized. The officers exchanged glances. To someone with old money and old blood, “a few years” wasn’t a long time. But since the Great War, the world was changing fast. People came and went more quickly now, sometimes permanently.

The detective said, “Have you notified your husband?”

She shook her head. “My husband is away on government business. He’ll be devastated, of course. But I have to sacrifice my pride— I’m not sure what to say to him. He is so fond of his man. One can replace diamonds, I suppose, and someone wouldn’t really be able to tell the difference, but trust—”

She wiped at a tear. The butler was there immediately, pristine white handkerchief at the ready.

The police officers glanced around the spotless room. All that remained of the valet were several empty hangers in the closet and a pair of white gloves on the bed. They had not even been smudged and stood out like a slap in the face. The room would have no fingerprints, they all knew.

The elderly detective said, "Don't worry madam, we'll find him all right. No, don't you worry. It’s just a bit of a challenge, but they always are, these runners. Been more of them since the war. We’re getting good at catching them now."

She nodded, tried to smile. "Those jewels have been in my husband's family for generations. They are insured, of course. One does such things these days. But they are priceless in memories. You can even see them in some of the family paintings. Can you understand?"

"Yes, madam, I understand tradition.”

She seemed relieved, and the detective continued as he waved his men out the door, “We’ve got the details from your butler. We'll get right on the trail, won’t we, lads?"

No one answered, but they younger men exchanged glances and tried to his their smiles anyway, just a slight nod to politeness of their senior officer.

* * *

Later, in the drawing room, the lady smiled at the butler. "Excellent job, as usual, my dear. I do love a good mystery as much as I love diamonds and rubies. I wonder how many other women have to go through such travails?”

The butler held out a glass of sherry placed perfectly on a white doily at the exact center of a small tray.

“Real ones, you mean, madame? I don’t really know, my dear, but I suspect more than a few. Do you think we’ll ever have to sell them?”

“Sell the family jewels?” She shrugged. “Do you suppose they will ever find our thief?"

The butler smiled, slipping on his white gloves. "They never have before, though I do weary of dealing with insurance companies these days. Such greedy, grubbing people, always looking towards easy profit. Earl of this, Baron of that. One had so many titles in the old days. Do you think we’ll see our names in the paper this time?”

She shook her head. “Older man, that detective. They understand discretion.”

He agreed. “But detectives of the right age are beginning to retire.”

She sighed. “Not everyone shares our work ethic, I fear. We’re getting too old for these games. Maybe I should find another husband who doesn’t have to steal his own jewels. There must be plenty of old birds whose sons also died in the war.”

“We’ve been through all that. You know murder does not appeal to me.”

She smiled slightly as he leaned over to kiss her cheek. The butler then said, “Time for the guests to arrive, Madame. Shall I show them into the drawing room?"

She sighed. “Anything to keep up the disguise.”

* * * * *

DOG GONE IT

She looked on with dismay, and all she could manage was, "A puppy in a box, how terribly inconvenient."

"Come on, you'll learn to love the little guy," he said with a charming grin. “He was the last of the litter at the grocery store, and I just couldn’t leave him there alone in his box. I came right from work, by the way, I only stopped to get you flowers.”

It always got to her, that grin—as good as a gun for making her feel helpless. No flowers either, seems he got distracted.

She said, "Never mind, I always did like strays, even though my mother told me never to take in strange animals or strange men."

"Your mother was smart, and in my case, you got both. I know it’s only been a few days, but I feel like I’ve known you much longer."

Same with her, but it was that feeling that drew her to him in the first place. And that grin. She wasn’t going to tell him that. Men get funny ideas when you tell them the truth too soon.

He added, leaning just a bit closer, “I want to know all about you, and I hope you want to know more about me too.”

Suddenly, the whole world flashed. The thunder roared only a few seconds later. The puppy cringed and whined.

His brows rose in alarm, and he reached to the television remote. The news was playing the same warning as always: "If you see this man. . . escaped from maximum security prison. . . armed and dangerous."

She figured he didn’t notice that she had already seen the resemblance. The man on the tube could have been his twin brother. She thought about asking him where he’d been the last few years. Prison, perhaps?

Just her luck to get another one like that. She seemed to be a magnet for bad men. Is that what he meant by getting to know him better?

The lightning flashed again, the thunder came even closer. The storm was right on top of them. She couldn’t hear him speak at first. He said, "You don't need this on. It’s just the same old depressing news. Better to have it off in the storm anyway."

He flipped off the set, and when he turned back, she was closer and partly undressed. He grinned again, and tossed the remote aside. Before it hit the ground, he lunged for her.

She was ready, and the knife was very sharp. Besides, she was a butcher’s daughter—she knew just where to put it.

He slumped down with a grunt, then laid there with his eyes open and his mouth twisted in final pain and surprise. He wasn’t blinking though, and he made no sound anymore. The puppy whimpered and licked at his face.

The thunderstorm seemed to be passing away.

She nervously closed her robe over her nakedness, then picked up the dog and absently rubbed at its fuzzy puppy ears. She preferred cats really, they purred. At least you knew when they were happy.

Not like men. It was so hard to please a man, they could be so particular.

A voice from behind said, "You’re probably gonna get fleas."

She turned to her husband. She hadn’t seen him for quite a while. Their reunion a few nights before had been just as stormy as this night. It was a passion that wouldn’t go away.

She poked the dead man with her bare toe.

Her husband said, “You’re right, he looks an awful lot like me. Much closer than the others. But then, you always did have a weakness for my type.”

That was a nasty reminder. Jealousy could be a bitch. So could she, but she didn’t want to get into that again. Nobody made him kill those men. And now she wasn’t one to throw stones.

She said, “Do you suppose they will just assume it is you then? I thought they were taking DNA from all convicted felons."

He shrugged. “That’s why I left. They don’t have my DNA yet, I had a buddy check, but they had me scheduled, it’s true.”

The dog licked the convict's hand as the man stroked its ears too. She handed over the mutt and said, “Okay, now what do we do?”

He said, "We'll just make a switch here and there, different hair, need to shave it off like mine. Needs my convict clothes and my shoes. You said he didn’t have any tattoos, that’s good. That’s always a give away. Those idiot cons in prison don’t figure that, but they’re still in there and I got out. He's close enough, and you can tell the cops what they need to know. Self-defense, they shouldn’t squawk too much. I have a history of violence, as you well know, and a score to settle too. Besides, they are embarrassed I got away so easy.”

“Then we’re square. I identify this poor sap as you and we’re square for you killing—“

”Don’t go into that again, I didn’t believe you then and I don’t believe you now. You’re too damn pretty for your own good, and you didn’t seem to have any trouble picking up a stranger again. I should shoot you in the face instead and forget about you. My problem is that I love you, and I’m trying hard not to love you to death.”

She wasn’t frightened. She loved him too, and knew that if he was ever going to hurt her, it would have happened already.

But he was gasoline, and she was a match. They did terrible things to each other. . . and for each other. She looked at the dead man again. “You’re the one who has to shoot him in the face, I can’t do that. I have to get the story right. You came to the door, or did you break in? Like you said, they’ll know we had a history together.”

“No sense in breaking a window or door, and cops aren’t that smart, like I said. They want the easy answer, just like before. Just figure out your story, and whatever it is, stick with it. If they ask for more details, say you don’t remember. They’ll ask you over and over again, so keep to a simple story and act sure.”

“What about the dog? I don’t have food here and I’m not going to walk him.”

“I’ll take him with me, I kind of like him, and he’ll be good company. I’ll give it six months, you should have the reward by then."

Or be in prison.

She nodded in agreement, she would always give in, but she mumbled with a sigh, “Mother told me about strays.”

He said, “I’ll take the guy’s car for now, and get another when I’m clean away. That way if there’s anyone watching, they can see that your boyfriend left before you killed me.”

After the switch, puppy in hand, they opened the front door together. Parked in front was a car from the county sheriff’s pool. He said he was coming from work.

She turned to look back at the victim then. He was right, she really should have learned more about him.

* * * * *

CUSTER CAME BACK

Custer came back as a girl, and it must be me.

Or so my life seems these days. The last stand. Or was that the last straw. At least, Custer didn't die alone, the rebel without a pause for reflection.

Me, all I do is sit around and think about how I'm all alone. I would have hated to be that last calvary man left alive, watching everyone you know and work with die around you, knowing you're going down too.

It’s not so dramatic as death, but heartbreak can be worse, I think. You feel just as alone.

So I guess there's worse things than watching out the window, waiting for someone to come over, knowing that you don't really want to see him, but still needing that closure.

Closure, better than an arrow in you, or a few.

Maybe not.

Next time, I’ll be one of the natives. Better to do the shooting than the one getting shot.

* * * * *

CAREER PRIORITIES

Retirement. I never did look forward too it, but when they figure you've outlived your usefulness, they stick you in a home. They were wrong, of course, I'm still one of the best.

But times change, and opinions vary.

That's what my friend Billy says.

Me and Billy, we sit around the home now—sometimes out on the porch or in the backyard—talking about the old days on the Force and dreaming of sweet young things and adventures from our youth. Of course, we never worked together then. Billy worked airports mostly, I was in the city.

Did I ever tell you about the Hazeltine case? It was back maybe ten years ago, maybe more. People weren't smart then like they are now. Oh, I don't mean the drug lords. They were always smart, evil genius types, I always figured.

But the pushers, the users, even the cops like me, we weren't smart on the ways of things. Back then, they hid their joints in body cavities and hollowed out books—easy to catch. Now, they do things like dissolve cocaine in gasoline and bring it into the country in the cars of diplomatic embassies. Seen that one in those movies.

Yes sir, they're a lot smarter now, and more sophisticated. They go to a lot of trouble to get past the law these days.

I was pretty young back then. At least, it seems so compared to now. Maybe I was just naive, or more like just too optimistic for mankind. After a few years on the Force though, I got over all that. Just saw too much of the dark side, I guess.

It's like I just got fed up, couldn't take it anymore. The boss said I looked like I could bite off somebody's head. Of course, it might have just been the pain. Arthritis ages a guy beyond his years. Now when it hits me worst, I just sit in the sun wherever I can. On the porch is best, because there the wind can blow through my hair, and I can sprawl full out.

Maybe I’m dreaming about funner times. Like maybe out on a boat, fishing at sea. Or even in the back of somebody’s pickup truck when a bunch of us went camping. I’ve always been pretty active in my dreaming.

That's when me and Billy start shooting the breeze ourselves. On his good days, that is. Billy doesn't have too many good days anymore.

He was shot once, in the line of duty, something I had the good fortune to escape. It left him crippled in his old age, but then, I'm not moving as fast as I used to either. Now Billy hardly notices when a fine young thing waltzes by. I'd hate to be in that bad of shape myself.

Anyway, back to the Hazeltine affair. If you haven't guessed by now, I was in Vice. More to the point, me and my partner, Rocky, we were a team in Drug Enforcement on the Vice Squad.

It was Seattle, the pearl of ports to the Pacific. And you know what that means: lots of imports, including opium and hash and grass.

When I joined the police force, drugs were more than an escape for hippies, they were the in-thing for young and old alike. Those with budding careers could afford the best. Those without options, well those are the ones who stole things, or sold things, like their own bodies mostly.

I hated to see kids strung out, but I sure couldn't understand why someone with a college education, a promising career, and a fine future would sacrifice it all for a puff or a snort or a shot. But then that's me, well, ones like me, and Billy, and my partner, Rocky Fellini.

Fellini and I go way back. We started in the Force together, in fact. Met in training classes actually. We really hit it off. Oh, some people were surprised. See, Rocky, he gets along with everybody. Me, I don't say much and some people think I'm mean.

Well, I grant you, I look mean. Some folks say you can't tell my smile from a snarl, but a lot of people aren't good in the morning. I always figured people shied away because I'm black, but Rocky said that was too pat of an answer.

Anyway, Rocky is working for some county sheriff now down in Central Oregon. Said he had enough of the big city and big crime. I think he's on the poor side now, can't be too much work for an ex-drug enforcement officer in a place like No-Where, Oregon.

Anyway, I digress. I was telling Billy about the Hazeltines just yesterday. But, he fell asleep and since he never remembers too good anyway, I'll start over again.

It was a few years back, like I said, but here in this part of the West Coast, well, it never seemed to escape the Sixties. People were into acid rock and tie-dye shirts and incense.

Incense was used a lot, they thought it covered up the smell, I guess. But if you do it for a living, you can always tell the difference between grass, marijuana, that is, and incense.

But Rocky, he wanted to make a name for himself, so he wasn't into the small fry. He wanted the big money, the honchos—wrong country, I told him, honcho is Spanish, but he never paid attention to details like that.

Anyway, Fellini wanted us to go after the morphine trade from Asia. See, they would bring in the raw morphine, ship it to Canada for refining and bring the goods back down through the small border towns. Hell, you could smuggle a Buick out and back via the small border towns. I suppose some people did.

That's what the Hazeltines were doing anyway. Those two made Ozzie and Harriet look like Ma and Pa Dalton. They were bad people, but they looked like somebody's sweet old grandparents, and smelled like it too. Moth balls, I think, and disinfectant and the old man wore some kind of hair tonic that made my nose itch.

Personally, I never knew my grandparents, and I barely knew my dad, because he was always off hunting or working. But if my mom ever did anything like old lady Hazeltine, well, I would bite her head off, rest her soul. But I digress.

It started along Green Lake Park, near the zoo in Seattle. One day me and Rocky were out there for lunch. He's a sucker for hot dogs, never did see a man so crazy about those dogs. We decided to get a few and go eat at the lake since it was such a nice day.

Of course, now the lake has all those bicycles and roller blades and skate boards and such. Then it was pretty, and quiet except for the kids playing. I always got along great with kids. Wish I would have had a few of my own, but that's another story.

Billy had a few kids, but he never saw them much when we worked together. He knew about my own dad and me, but between us, that was a pretty sore subect. Hell, he doesn't even remember them half the time, his offspring, and I know he doesn't think of their mom. Pretty little thing, that one.

Well, we were enjoying our dogs on this fine spring day. Rocky was a riot to watch. I used to love to watch him, but you know, for as sloppy as he was, he never dropped, not once, or even dripped. What a guy, I sure miss him.

Then this little kid went careening by, her little friends were chasing her. It must have been tag, or keep away, or one of those games they never play anymore.

Now, it's that noisy video stuff. They never go outside either, it's arcades or in front of the TV. Kids don't play tag or football or Frisbee much anymore. I used to love Frisbee. It makes me feel old just thinking about it now.

Anyway, this kid fell down and started wailing. You would think a rocking chair was smashing some cat's tail over and over again, the way she yowled. Anyway, I was looking around for her mom, because dads didn't hang around with the kids back then. And what did I see but this haggard-looking woman pleading with this old guy.

Well, I know a junkie when I see one, and if this young woman wasn't one, she was well on her way to becoming one. The old guy keep shaking his head, he must have been made of iron. She kept pleading, and even offered a few indecent options. It made the hair on the back of my neck rise, the thought was that disgusting.

I pointed it out to my partner, but he was into his hot dog. I told him it was strange that the woman would put her discussion with the old man ahead of the kid. He wanted to know how I knew it was her kid, but I had seen them come into the park together. Besides, I have a nose for that kind of thing.

I am observant to the point of being rude, but hey, it's my job. Well, it was my job. I was pretty insistent, so Rocky left his hot dog with a sigh and moved toward the arguing adults.

It was like magic, the old man takes off, as fast as an old man can, and the woman went all ghosty-white. It's not like Rocky and me wore uniforms, we were undercover, but I guess the people were suspicious anyway. The woman swooped up that bawling kid and was gone, just like that. We watched for more action for quite a while.

Finally, Rocky came back and just stood there, staring first at me, then back toward where those people had been, then at where his hot dog used to be. But what can I say? I know I should not have eaten the rest of his dog, but I did. There you have it, I just did. No excuses, I’m not going to whine about it like he did.

Yup, Rocky was pretty mad when he came back to find I had finished his lunch. I pointed out that it was getting cold anyway, and he was daydreaming all the way over there, but he was having none of it.

He said the next time I had a revelation on a drug deal going down, I could just handle it myself. I explained that I wasn't good with words, that he was the talker. But no, he was still mad. In fact, he was so mad that he made me ride in the back seat.

Boy, did I feel stupid, and I sure got the ribbing from the other guys. Only perps rode in the back seat, he had no right to make me feel like a criminal just because of his stupid lunch.

On the flip side, not that they use LP records anymore, so there aren't really any flip sides. Anyway, the chief was pretty interested in our story. Parks are notorious for drug deals, but we were never quite sure how some of this stuff was going down.

We got assigned to park detail for the next couple of weeks. I was pretty happy about it, but Rocky wasn't. He preferred night life, and cruising, and doing social stuff. I loved to play ball, and go swimming, and toss Frisbees with the kids. I think he was all the madder because I was having such a great time.

I told him we had to blend, that we couldn't be sitting there like a couple of perverts or something. I have to hand it to Fellini, he is quite the actor. He took my suggestion to heart and got this maintenance man's uniform.

Granted he wasn't into cleaning toilets and garbage cans, but he didn't seem to mind the litter control because sometimes people stopped and talked. Eventually, he learned to like the sunshine and fresh air and even tossed a ball with me on occasion.

We didn't figure to catch anyone right away, we had to become park fixtures, regulars, you know, nothing out of the ordinary. Then the people wouldn't even notice us as they did their deals. That's why we were so surprised when the old man showed up so soon.

We had only been there about four days. The weather had been nice, lucky for us. I don't mind wind, it makes Frisbee a bit more interesting. But rain is always a bit nasty, and it rains a lot in Seattle. Anyway, the old guy waltzes in, harmless as can be. He starts dropping crumbs or something to the birds.

You would have to be pretty stupid not to notice the new people in the park. Not too many guys hang out in the park and play with the kids all day long. Cops usually round up guys like that. And how many times does the city just hire a new maintenance man, especially one that moves too fast?

Hardly ever, like never.

Anyway, you have to be even more stupid to not realize that the old man was pretty wise to us. Of course, that's my buddy Rocky. Now, don't get me wrong, I love the guy, and generally, he's a good partner. Never holds a grudge—you remember the lunch incident. . .

Well, okay, I have to confess it wasn't the first time I swiped his snacks.

Anyway, he plays it cool, and I had to wonder if he thought the old geezer was taken in. But I knew the old man saw us and knew exactly who we were. After all, he had seen us that first time with the little kid's mom.

But Rocky, he doesn't have a sense about these things, and I couldn't say anything without giving ourselves away. No sense in spooking the bird, right? Too many hunters go hungry by scaring the game away. Sorry about the metaphor, my dad was into hunting, that’s all.

Anyway, Fellini was ready to make a move, but it was too soon, so I created a distraction. I could tell he was mad at the time, but we discussed it later, and he agreed I was right.

Some kids were playing ball and I ran to catch a toss. They screamed and started running after me. I had the sense to run in the opposite direction of the man. And more importantly, Rocky had the sense not to do anything at all. The kids finally went to Rocky for help, must have been the uniform, even if it was for a janitor.

I played hard to get, but eventually, gave the kids back their ball. Poor Rocky, he figured I was just being a pain, but I explained that maybe it looked like we didn't know each other. Maybe the old man would think that Rocky really did work there in the park, and that maybe I was unemployed, or maybe worked nights or something, but that definitely, we weren't there together.

Now, I guess after telling you this, I'm beginning to see that Rocky might be better off in Oregon. The main stream might have been just a bit too fast for the guy. True, I had more commendations than him, but then everybody needs a straight man, right?

Oregon would be good for him, he could solve sheep-napping, do they call that rustling, or does that have to be cattle? Needless to say, he wouldn't agree that he was slow and dumb, but then that just proves my point. Anyway, eventually he caught on, and we resumed our park activities, pretending not to know each other.

Sure enough, in another few days, the old man returned. He was again feeding the birds, and I was pretending to snooze in the sun. Rocky was cleaning fountains and benches. I heard about it for years too, about his scraping bird crap off seats for one of my hair-brained schemes.

About an hour later, some kid comes to sit by the old man. I say kid, I'm not good with ages, but Rocky claims the kid was about eighteen. Anyway, this mess had long hair and faded jeans, they all did back then, and no shoes.

He sat a few feet away from the old man for about five minutes. The old geezer drops his hat, the young man stoops to pick it up. In law enforcement, that means that the transaction had begun. The kid had passed the cash in the man's hat when he picked it up.

They sat another few minutes, then the old man hands the sack of bird food to the young guy. The geezer slowly gets up and moseys away. When he is out of sight, the kid bolted, as fast as you please.

Well, that's all I needed. I took off after the kid. Rocky, who was still on his knees and his head bent under a park bench, jumped into action. Well, as much as Rocky ever did. He watched me for a few seconds, figured I could handle it, then took after the old man.

The young guy ran pretty good for being barefooted. Still, the parking lot gravel slowed him down, which helped me. I wasn't in as good a shape as I should have been, too many of Rocky's lunches, I guess. The kid jumps up on this chain link fence surrounding the parking lot. He figures to go over and that I wouldn't follow.

What a jerk! I know I look fat, but I'm not, I'm just big-boned. But I had another bit of luck, because he starts having trouble. Guess the wire on his toes doesn't feel so good, and he slows down. I grabbed his pants and gave a heave, and he was flat on the ground. Lucky for him the ground knocked the wind out of him, I would have hated to show him my bad side.

The wrinkled paper bag went flying as he fell, a small bag of white powder fell among the bird crumbs. It was funny because the pigeons and sparrows didn't seem to mind it as they fluttered down for a snack. I thought about chasing them away, but I like to watch birds myself, and the young guy wasn't going anywhere, he was at least that smart.

Turns out that Rocky had a bit more trouble with his perpetrator. The old man had an old lady waiting for him in a car. She started batting Fellini with a purse as he grabbed at the old geezer. The old biddy was a tough old broad too. I hate ladies like that. We found out later that she had rocks in her purse.

But by that time, somebody in a neighboring house had called the cops. They thought Rocky was some mugger, the cops did too. Lucky for him that I reminded him to take his badge that morning. The cops would have hauled him in and the Hazeltines would have been gone for good.

When the team searched their house, we found about fifty pounds of heroin. They measure them in kilos, Billy says, but I never did have much luck with metric, even though my family is German. He is so international, working in the airport and all.

God, I wish he didn't snore like that. His nose is pretty messed up though, sniffing for cocaine and grass half his life. Anyway, the Hazeltine's got a good lawyer and only ended up with five years probation, but at least they weren't selling to young mothers in the park anymore.

Me, I decided I really liked that park. I made Rocky take us there for lunch quite a bit after that, but we never found any other drug dealers. Guess it got a reputation and stayed clean.

Oh, great, here comes supper. Maybe we can go play a little ball after? No?

These humans, they are so lazy these days.

And what's this?

Canned food again?

Don't you have any hot dogs, you know how much I love hot dogs.

* * * * *

THE BUTLER DID IT AGAIN

The insurance investigator shrugged at the notion, "I suppose if you feel she will be of no help. . ."

"I assure you, my wife will be nothing but upset. There is no need to question her, she was out of town at the time of the theft. She will be just sick about it. Her family's jewels, you see, and quite sentimental."

The man wiped at his upper lip, was that sweat or another shot of whiskey downed in haste? He offered the investigator another round, that man refused.

Instead, he said, "Family heirlooms as well as valuable gems. Too bad all the way around. Well, I'll see what I can do, Mr. Forbes. I will have to discuss this incident with my superiors, but it looks like a simple robbery. I'm surprised with all your security. . ."

He had a habit of letting things dangle. Infer, imply, implicate at your own risk. Criminals usually did the work for him. But with this guy, he wasn’t so sure. Sure the husband was nervous, but given what had happened, he couldn’t fault him there. Letting your mistress wear your wife’s heirlooms. . .

Well, that was so many kinds of stupid that he didn’t bother to list them. And he didn’t bother to tell the man that he knew what really happened. In any case, the jewels were just as gone, and the investigator was not interested in ruining anybody’s marriage. The guy was doing that on his own.

The man gulped down his drink, then another before he choked out, "I'm not Mr. Forbes, that is my wife's family name. And I told you, I was taking the jewels to the safety deposit box. For all I know, the bank guard clipped them."

Nice enough story, good cover. The man was used to lying to his wife. The investigator said, "Yes, well, I'll get on it. You'll be hearing from us."

Not-Mr.-Forbes didn't bother getting up to see the man out. Let one of the servants do that. Let the butler do it, it's about time the old geezer did something useful.

"He should be put out to pasture. I wouldn't have married that woman if I knew I would have to put up with her whole household of ancient servants."

That wasn't true, he had married for money, and that's what he got. But only an allowance, not the fortune he assumed he would control by marrying the shrew. So much for all the plans for his own business. He wasn’t going to beg for that.

Curse the old reprobate who spawned her. The family trust fund could only be run by a blood member of the family. That wasn't him, that was his wife.

"Saves us all from gold diggers, darling," she cooed when he learned the truth. He hated her for it, and her stupid, stingy family. At least, the rest of them had the good grace to all be dead by now.

All but my wife, he thought, then sighed. Anyway, now that he had his own interests, he got by well enough. The idle rich, not too far off the mark. A long way from his roots on the wrong side of everywhere.

"That's probably what made me so attractive to her in the first place," he mused, looking out at the lush gardens of the country estate. She was in London, buying designer gowns to be worn only once. Worn to society balls where she could show off her wealth and her bad boy husband.

The envy of all those rich, useless matrons just like her. He served his role well enough, at least to start with, but was now in dire straits. He had taken her jewels, ones she never wore, he thought, and given them to a passing fancy.

The little tart was a cocktail girl, beautiful and quite simple. Just like those he had grown up with. Bad girls for bad boys like him. But she wouldn't have him unless he gave her trinkets and baubles. She wanted her fair share of the spoils as well.

Maybe not such a simple girl after all.

"Trinkets. A hundred thousand dollar trinket here, another fifty thousand dollar bauble there. The stupid woman."

She had squealed at how pretty and sparkly they were. Then she let someone steal them from her apartment. Just left them there to shine in the sun.

"Ignorant piece of fluff," he said bitterly, pouring another whiskey. Good whiskey, Irish and old. Money can buy comfort, and comfort was easy to get used to.

And in the end, she wasn't even worth it. Not so sweet, not so innocent, not so endearing. Grasping, bitter, and callous, just like himself. And now he had to get them back, or the money from the insurance policy. Then he could replace them before his wife found out.

* * *

"The police have arrived, Madame. Shall I put them in the drawing room?"

"That will be fine, Charles. Tell them I will be down momentarily."

The sedately dressed woman took a deep breath, glanced in the mirror, then sighed out raggedly. "Too serene."

She scowled, furrowed her brows a little deeper, then sniffed in disdain at the whole experience.

"There that's much better."

With one last look, and a tuck of an wayward curl, she let the jewelry she had been fondling cascade onto the bed. Lovely things, she loved the feel of them. Not for wearing, only for owning and admiring. She liked to own things.

Acquisition and possession, worthy hobbies for someone of wealth and position. She slipped down the grand stairway with the grace only breeding and a lifetime of practice could provide.

The policeman was kind. "Now ma’am, I know you must be distressed. Could you just describe what happened?"

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked, one eyebrow quirked up. She knew it was quite attractive. She had been a beauty in her time, which wasn’t that long ago, after all.

"The robbery?" he prodded, patiently. You always had to be correct with society dames, it was better for your career.

"Excuse me, are you sure you have the right Forbes estate?" she replied in the cool reserve the police found so irritating in the upper classes.

"Eugene Forbes, your husband, reported a theft of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in diamonds and rubies."

"It's pronounced Eu-gen-ee, as in Eugené, and it's not my husband, it's me. Besides, Forbes is my family name, and I didn't report anything anyway. Charles, do you know what this officer is talking about?"

"No, Madame," the butler replied in bored tones.

"There, you see, Charles knows everything that goes on around here."

The policeman rubbed his nose, trying to hide the annoyance, "The insurance company filed a report of theft with us, ma'am. The amount is quite substantial—"

"I'm sure you are wrong," she said stubbornly.

The officer mumbled with thin patience, "Is your husband at home?"

"No, he is off somewhere, I don't keep track. Maybe he’s in the country. Why, won't I do?" she asked with some amusement. It was shared by the butler.

The policeman didn't take it well. She apologized, "My husband doesn't deal with any of the Forbes assets, they belong to my family. I suppose I will just have to convince you, officer. Charles?"

But the butler needed no orders, he knew what to do. Moments later, the officer was examining the fine gems.

She stroked the stones, "Breathtaking, aren't they?"

"I've never seen the like, but then I come from a modest family line myself. Merchants and sea captain, mostly."

She smiled encouragingly, but the officer frowned. "Of course, you realize, ma'am, that your husband may have filed a fraudulent insurance claim."

"I was afraid of that. Is there anyway to make restitution, to keep it quiet, I mean?"

"I can't do that, ma'am. The insurance company called us in, that takes it out of their hands. It is the law."

"Oh dear. . ."

The butler laid a comforting hand. She could not look up at the policeman. He saw the slight shake of her shoulders. She was crying, but even so, she did it like a lady.

"Why would a man who had everything do something like this?" the officer asked the butler.

She said, sniffing, "I suppose it was the gambling debts. I couldn't release anymore capital from the trust fund, you see. He was desperate."

"And now he is lost, Madame," soothed the butler.

"Well, I have to call this in. Sure sorry, ma'am."

She nodded, dabbing her eyes. When the door shut, she turned to the butler, a glitter of laughter still left, "Well, that's that. Jewels intact, errant husband done in by his own hand. Do you suppose we will ever get over the shame, Charles?"

The butler smiled, slipping on his white gloves to handle the jewels. Nice things, white gloves, no fingerprints. Floozies seldom have strong locks in cheap apartments, and wayward husbands don’ t have any sense at all.

Holding the stones to the light, he said, "I assume so, Madame.” Then he sighed. “I remember when they were real."

* * * * *

HIDDEN TREASURE

The thieves staked out the old house for days. They were smart enough not to just sit there though. Nothing like creeps hanging around to make the neighborhood nervous.

They picked up trashed, cleared out road grates, that sort of thing. No one ever did that kind of work around the old neighborhood before, but like always, nobody asked them any questions.

They were eating under a tree across the street from a lovely old house that had seen much better days.

One said, “They need to mow their lawn, and those roses need fertilizing.”

His fellows laughed at that, he had been a gardener in his real life. That is, before the first time he’d gone to the county jail.

Another said, “Used to be really rich folks here. Some kind of nuclear scientist, wrote some papers, worked for Hollywood consulting on those kind of movies. Made a lot of money like that. Now a bunch of old ladies live there alone.”

“How come you know so much?”

“I got hobbies.”

“Since when do your hobbies got to do with old ladies, man. That’s just kind of creepy.”

“Not as creepy as your English, maybe you shouldn’t have cut all your classes.”

“You mean at school or in prison?”

They laughed.

“Yeah, but I heard it too. The owners made it into a home for aging old maids. The kind who save all their grandmother’s old things. Bet there’s a herd of cats inside, place gotta stink like a zoo, man.”

“God, I hate cats. My old lady had this—“

“So what are we doing here then? Old watches and pearls and granny’s lace doilies, maybe some antiques, and I don’t mean the women.” Only he snickered, but then he continued, “That kind of thing, ain’t nothing to do but hock them, and that don’t bring in much of anything.”

“Look, I told you for the gazillionth time, the owners are two old ladies whose family used to be rich. They are supposed to have a stash of family jewels inside worth millions. Probably got some ready cash on hand, and maybe some other things too.”

“So when we goin’ in, I’m tired of working on the chain gang here.”

“You should have it so good. This ain’t bad. One time, me and Duke, we had—“

”Knock it off, someone might hear us.”

“Yeah, best get back to work, somebody might figure we’re slacking and call the city to complain.”

They laughed again.

The men went back to work, but the plan had already been made. Tonight was the night the ladies went to the theater. The two old ladies who owned the place, the Sikes Sisters, had done this with their parents since they were young. But since the old playhouse had been converted into a multiplex, they had continued the tradition with their paying boarders, only now they had an earlier night of it.

Many of the films were shocking now, but tradition was just that: tradition, but new and improved, because now they took a detour after the film to what had once been the local tea house, but was now a tavern. That served their purpose just as well.

If they hit the last matinee, the tavern had yet to pick up with the rowdies who came in after work. It was perfect for all concerned, though the ladies seldom had more than a round, and then of only wine or sherry.

Tonight, the movie was a long one though, and particularly bloody as well. The ladies took a vote to have another round and watched the “young people” come in. It seems they were just as interested now in those mating rituals as anything they had seen on the screen. If all went well, it was decided they would vote on whether to make it a regular habit.

The ladies were very democratic.

But it was only a few moments after they had left the house that the men on the street began to gather. One by one, they slipped down the alley driveway to the back of the house, and from there and a cellar well window, slipped in.

The place was like a museum and smelled of ladies’ talcum powder, moth balls, and lemon tea. One of the men headed toward the kitchen.

Another whispered loudly, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Don’t make a mess, we don’t want them calling the cops right away. We want it to take awhile for them to figure out that their valuables have all gone away.”

“Oh, right, I forgot.”

“Find the safe.”

They all fanned out. It took not a lot of looking. The safe in old houses was where it had always been: behind a painting.

“Now be quiet, this is an old lock, all I need is a bit of luck and some quiet.”

True to his word, the tumbler was turned and the safe opened with no complaints. Inside were a few pages of papers, including a couple of wills, birth certificates, and a bag of . . . rocks.

“Rocks? You mean unset diamonds and emeralds and rubies, as in stones, gems, that kind of thing?”

The safe cracker took out the bag and emptied it onto the well-dusted, neatly arranged desk.

Rocks.

They were silent. Somewhere a clock ticked. Grandfather clock probably. Typical. And some other sound came as well.

Water?

Was water running? Was someone there after all?

One said low and angry, “I thought you said nobody was here?”

The other looked around. He said quietly, “Look out the windows, out of the doors, listened at the stairs. There shouldn’t be anybody here.”

Convinced there wasn’t, they finally realized the noise was a fish tank. Not from keen observation, but because the fish tank light came on by a timer. Must be getting darker in the evening, which meant they had already been there too long.

“We gotta be gettin’ out of here.”

“What should we do with the stones?”

“How about you stick’em up your—“

”Ssh, somebody’s coming. Why did you shut the safe?”

“Because I didn’t think we’d be putting something back, Einstein.”

“Don’t you remember the combination?”

“Didn’t think I’d have too, jerk.”

“Quiet. Somebody’s coming up the walk.”

“Toss’em, quick.”

“Toss’em where?”

“No potted plants, in here, what kind of old ladies are these?”

“Don’t want them in our pockets, man. Who knows, nuclear scientist, maybe they’re radioactive, something like that.”

“Oh, Jeez, why did you gotta say that. Make a guy’s privates go shrivelly, man.”

“All right, put them in here.” The safe cracker gather a few and dropped them into the fish tank. They blended right into the gravel on the bottom. The others did the same until the rocks were all dropped.

”Poor little fishies, hope them rocks weren’t radioactive, they might become mutants or something.”

”Wait, maybe we could just keep one, just for a souvenir?”

The voices were closer now, the old ladies were singing at the door as some one fumbled with the keys.

One of the robbers said, ”Where the hell is the old mill stream?”

Another one said, ”Who cares, and I ain’t reaching in to get one again. Let’s go.”

* * *

Lydia Sikes was cleaning the house the next day, because as always, it was one or the other. Sometimes it seemed that their work was never done, but of course, they had learned that from their father.

She noticed the dust on the desk right away.

“Cora, could you come in here, please?”

Her sister waddled in, she had been reading a book on mixed drinks in preparation for their new coming adventure next week in the tavern.

“Do you know they have a cocktail called a grasshopper. Imagine.”

At her sister’s silence, she looked up from the book. “What is it, hon?”

“Look at the desk.”

Cora took off her reading glasses, then leaned closer. She took a finger and rubbed it through, then rubbed her finger and thumb together.

“Open the safe, dear, I think we’ve been robbed.”

The bag was gone, the rocks were too. They looked around the room. The bag was stuck down between the seat cushion, but it was completely empty.

Lydia said, “I suppose I should call the police.”

“Did you forget to put the lid down on the fish tank? I told you about that before. It evaporates into the air too much, and makes the whole room go damp. I know the timer is set for the Tropics, dear, but do we have to have the same climate in here?”

“I haven’t fed the fish yet, hon, but now that you mention it, you can do that while I call the police. I got new mice just yesterday.”

“Never mind, look at that.”

The two women leaned down to stare down below. The fish were impatient for their feeding.

Lydia cooed to the fish as she swished around with the net trying to get the rocks out without actually putting her fingers in the water. “Come little fishies, let’s get you a nice mouse, or maybe you would prefer some cow today.”

Cora said, “We used the beef for meatloaf, you know they don’t like it cooked. Anyway, leave them there.”

“But you can see them, dear, plain as day.”

“Only when the lights are on. We can cover them up a bit, dig them into the gravel. If the thieves knew what these were uncut diamonds, they wouldn’t have left them. Still, I wonder why they dropped them in here in the first place?”

The two women stared at each other, but neither thought of an answer.

Lydia said, ”In any case, I think they are safer there in plain sight, of sorts. They look like regular rocks, and after all, the fish are piranha.”

* * * * *

WHERE THERE'S A WILL

Willem didn’t have any qualms about helping the homeless man, even though the old guy really could stink. Sometimes the old man told a good story or two, and the young boy and old man became friends. Willem didn’t have any family himself, just distant relations that he’d heard about, but mostly none that wanted anything to do with him.

He’d been on his own in the orphanage since he was eight years old, and that was a three years ago. He thought about his mother once in a while, but he never knew his father at all, so couldn’t actually miss him.

No one was surprise when the old man died, just turned up his toes one cold morning. But everyone was when it turned out the old coot had millions. And that he left it all to the boy.

Folks came from the wood work after that, all sorts who wanted to care for the unfortunate orphan. Some would foster, some would adopt, others just claimed to be some distant, if new found, relation.

The will’s executor tried them all, but Willem soon decided the man had his own interests in mind more than Willem’s.

He asked once, “When do I get the money on my own?”

“When you’re twenty-one, not before.”

“How do I know there’ll be anything left?”

“Nobody can get at the principal without guardianship. That means, the bulk of the money is a trust fund. I can’t access it, only a guardian, someone appointed to look after you. It’ll be there, don’t you worry, but I got problems of my own.”

Fair enough, Willem thought, and left it alone for a bit.

* * *

That was a few years ago, and Willem still had quite a few more to go before he turned twenty-one. Until then, he was as happy as the old man had been, there living on the street with the birds and the strays and a few others like him.

But one day in the paper over old Joe’s face, he saw a notice declaring that if he wasn’t found in a matter of days, he’d be declared legally dead and all the money would revert to the estate and next of kin.

It was a hard enough decision to go back or not, and when he got there, all the old troubles began again. Willem went to the executor and demanded to read the old man’s will.

“Why? Don’t you trust me?”

“No, come to that, but looks like I got no choice. I just like to know in what game I’d be playing.”

“Why, what have you heard? And by the way, just where have you been?”

Willem always suspected that some of these “distant relatives” were more water than blood, and his suspicions pointed right back to the executor. How else could the man get at the old man’s money? No way was he going to tell this man anymore.

Willem slipped away to read the will, and then took the copy to one of his buddies on the street. The man had been a lawyer himself until drink and gambling drove him into the gutter.

The man said, “Looks like it’s water tight and the executor’s right. He can’t touch it without you, but he can name a guardian with a judge’s consent, and by what you told me, that was what he was trying to do. Supposedly, the judge would want to talk to you too, to get your agreement. But now, I’m not so sure.”

“And then the guardian can get at the money?”

“I expect.”

“Say anything about my being declared dead?”

“Not specifically, but the laws here are pretty clear. Gone and unheard from for a few years, and they can declare you officially dead. Even if you show up again, you forfeit your rights after that.”

“So I can’t just disappear, because it’s still years for me to turn twenty one. And if I stay, the executor might try to get a judge to declare a guardian.”

“Probably pay somebody off, that’s what I’d do.”

Willem looked at him with his eyebrows raised.

“If I was crooked, that is, like you say,” the old man said with a grin.

“Pay somebody off. Gives me an idea.”

“Like what?”

“Well, seems to me I need to be someplace that they can find me, but they can’t force me to take on a guardian.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then I need a favor from you and the boys.”

By that time, his buddies had all gathered anyway.

They said:

“Just say what you need, boy.”

“Anything, Willem.”

“I’m your man, lad.”

Willem said, “This might be hard, but there’s something in it, if you want it anyway. When I get my money, I’ll give you each a million and a home to go to always, if that’s what you want.”

They guffawed, but stopped when they saw he was quite serious.

He said anywY, “I’m serious. If I don’t do this, none of will have anything left anyway.”

“A million,” said the lawyer. “I could get my life back.” He looked around, “Only this time, I think I’d have better friends.”

They agreed. One said, “So what’s the plan, boy?”

“I have to beat you up,” he said to the lawyer.

They looked at him.

He quickly added, “It doesn’t have to be bad, it just has to be obvious, and there has to be witnesses. It can’t just be my word against yours.”

“Better explain that a bit, Willem,” the lawyer said.

Willem settled down and the rest of them too. He said, “I’m a minor. If I commit a serious enough crime, they will put me in juvenile. Too serious and they might put me away as an adult.”

“Right,” the lawyer said. “I get it now. You need to be in a place where they can find you, like jail, but not one where you require a guardian.”

Another said, “You mean because the jail would be your guardian.”

“Now you get it,” Willem said.

“That’s a hard row to hoe, lad. I been in jail, it’s—“

”No worse than this,” said another.

They thought for a minute. Regular meals, good enough bed, even a toilet and shower. One by one they agreed. The last was the lawyer. He finally said, “I’ll do it, but on one condition.”

“Name it,” said Willem.

“That you beat up one of the others, not me.”

* * * * *

THE BIT OF PERSUASION

Bruce opened the door and dropped his banana.

Not so bad, if he hadn't stepped on it, too. That was probably a good thing, since he wouldn't have noticed the post-it note stuck to the bottom of his shoe otherwise.

Damn that Scott, always sliding post-its under his door. And he had to slide them sticky side up so you couldn't see the writing, because otherwise, they wouldn't slide at all. Not that Bruce gave Scott the credit for that one, it was something Scott's incredibly intelligent and clever and witty wife must have thought of.

But Scott’s wife was the reason Scott was not here. And so it came down to Bruce.

Lifting his foot, Bruce reached down to grab the note, but his hands were too full and his balance too precarious (too much caffeine). The next to fall was the coffee cup, (already emptied of triple-blast espresso in record time this morning), and the inch worth of documentation.

Not that the product needed documentation according to P-Gods-past (as in Programmer-Gods-Past). Nor did the code even have documentation, for everything about it was merely intuitive, you see.

But like the ether of alchemists before, intuitive code was also a myth.

However, this documentation was more important than mere words. And it was more intuitive than “merely” intuitive. . . it was “real” intuitive (a technical term). And it was also needed to prop up the corner of his desk, which wobbled too much and was quite likely to drive him mad—

If the code didn't drive him mad first.

He left the mess on the floor and wandered to his seat, reading the post-it along the way. The note said, "Take a look-see at the xyz module in the UI, it's as slow as slug slime, I think it switched a bit."

Computer bit, zeroes and ones. He hated programming this close to the hardware. Just one little flaw and the whole thing could crash. The dreaded blue screen of death. He had suggested once that they use other colors, randomly selected depending on the error code.

Never happened. Nobody liked those kinds of ideas. Somebody even asked once if he was gay.

Bruce mumbled, "Slow as slug slime? How unprofessional."

He preferred the more technical term of "mollusk mucus," as in "invertebrate terrestrial gastropod mollusk mucus." That or slime mold, a vegetative body consisting of a slimy, motile, multi-nucleate mass of protoplasm. Okay, maybe slug slime was sort of accurate after all.

Bruce wasn’t gay, but he was kind of a dick.

When he checked out the module from the software library, his desk wobbled with each key stroke. He renamed the module mm, short for mollusk mucus, just so he'd know for sure what he was working on, and so, with only two of the same key strokes, the desk wouldn't wobble so much.

Then he went to clean up the mess on his floor.

He set the stuff on the desk and looked out the window. It was still snowing. Not too many people in the office today: someone down the hall, someone in the lobby (but he was probably the guard), and someone hacking in the bathroom (and that had nothing to do with computer code).

He'd go pee later, damned rental coffee. . .

"And me, I'm here," he said with some disdain, deciding he needed another espresso to perk himself up.

* * *

Everything was set now, no more excuses, no more delays. He had coffee, the remnants of the smashed banana, and the mm code, which was incredibly similar to that banana over there. Maybe too similar, he opened a drawer and scooped the banana over the edge. It oozed down, and out of sight. And then he went to edit some more. . .

The good thing about snow days is there's no one around to hear you scream.

"Devil's code! Evil spawn! Self-perpetuating !@#$%^&*("

He loved special characters. He wrote some more.

The drawer popped open.

"My God, it's alive!"

No, no, calm down, that's just the espresso talking, he thought with some relief.

Turns out his shirt tail was stuck in the drawer and when he moved, it pulled out, opening the drawer. Still, he watched the banana a moment, just to make sure.

It didn't move, but Bruce decided that though he had to cope with the wreck of the UI train, he didn't have to cope with the reek of the smashed banana.

Besides, he needed something mellow to cut the coffee. He took a half inch off the documentation (he could fold the rest over for his wobbly desk, so he selected the amount carefully) and used it to scoop out the banana.

He carried the documented banana carefully down the hall to the receptionist's desk, which was the most likely trash can to be cleaned out first, and besides, it was the farthest away that he could think of.

Maybe it was just killing time, but anything was preferable to messing with one more bogus function in the Mucus Pacific Railroad.

With coffee, now whitened with fake milk and cooling, and other things emptied, (the bathroom hacker had gone, no pun intended), Bruce sat back and stared at the mess before his eyes.

"If I hit delete block, will it matter?" he asked.

The code that disappeared.

No one answered, which was probably a good thing. His hand edged toward the key, shaking. Sweat broke out on his upper lip as he thought, "I could be free, free. . . hahaha!"

He blinked and took a deep breath, then hit the shift key and the control and the caps lock and some undefined function keys, just to release the tension. That made it worse. He dove to the floor and rammed the documentation further under the wobbly leg.

It didn't help, he had to slip it under over and over again. What was he thinking? It should have been so intuitive. The paper was half-gone, remember?

He yanked the paper out, folded it over and tried again. Perfect.

The machine beeped, remnants of a long dead function key definition. Harmless, but it scared him at first. He laughed.

"Stop me before I delete again!"

He sighed and went to work, since it would take a few more minutes for the coffee to cool down anyway. He didn’t like the taste, he had to gulp it down, and you couldn’t do that when it was too hot because it hurt. His stomach growled, and he wondered about that banana. . .

"Maybe there's some—Hello, what's this?"

Yet another stealth feature. Was it a forbidden high memory address? Was it a federal deficit interest calculation? Was it the King County taxation manipulation figures for the new baseball stadium? Maybe a pro-footbal player's salary per week?

"Looks like a Swiss Bank Account number," he said, laughing. "Damn it, Peter, what did you do now?"

But on reflection, Bruce was thinking that Peter might not be such a bad guy after all. Not that they thought much of a guy who wrote code in the first place and then ran away. In fact, they tried not to think of the guy much at all. He was a legend here, like Sasquatch and the Loch Ness guy.

Rumor had it the man was in Jamaica, living the high life. And that was adding insult to injury, given the snow outside today.

Selfish SOB. Sun and fun and surf and probably not a drop of slug slime in sight. Or if there were slugs, the gulls probably ate them all. There was a certain satisfaction in that thought, and Bruce let his mind wander, thinking how much overripe bananas could look just like slugs.

When it started to wander out the window, he knew it was sink or swim. He should have stayed in bed like every body else, but since he was here, he might as well get it over with. Bruce refused to look out the window, the snow would just be another added insult right now.

He made a note (post-it) about the strange number, and went on about the business of untangling the stock cars that were really the train of computer modules. The only thing worse than a train wreck was a train wreck where the cars were all livestock cars. A sort of train wreck that reeks!

Just when he thought he'd seen the worst of it, something even more horrible came into view. Scrolling can be a loathsome feature, a sort of mother-of-all loathsome features, really, spewing forth with more and more garbage. . .

Get a grip, he thought, then realized the implications.

"Why would there be a random number generator in the middle of. . . Rounding errors? Financial accounts? What in the world is this .0001 all about? Hmmm."

Maybe there was something to this intuitive business after all. If a user, any user in any company (say a highly successful, really huge corporation that does software development on the East side, for example), was to use this product, say under the table. . .

And this product was on a machine that was networked by hook and crook and telephone pole and ether to every other system in said-huge world-dominant software monopoly. . . er, corporation. . .

And say this product had a code breaking routine, and a Swiss bank account number embedded and a transaction manipulation loop hidden in the bowels of the beast that could be turned on and off with a bit switch. . .

Would said product with said routine be able to redirect all the accounting rounding remnants from that corporation to said Swiss account?

Given that decimal to binary conversion and back lends to rounding errors on digital machines, given the number and amount of transactions in a world class company, given that only one installation of said product could tap into all said company's financial transactions. . .

Said-Peter would be rich and able to retire eventually. In fact, sooner rather than later.

"And leave his stinking code for us to fix in the stinking snow with nothing but a stinking wobbly desk and a smashed banana for company."

Seems Peter was also a dick.

Bruce sniffed, rubbed his nose, downed his latte, and went about his work with a smile. They probably have a lot of bananas in Jamaica.

Now, if I just change this to .001 to accumulate faster, and this account number to this one here. . . Then recompile with Peter’s own ID. . .

"Sorry, P-God-Pete, you have been deposed even if you still get the credit. Make that blame if they ever catch me. The king is dead, long live me!"

* * *

Six months later:

The new geek opened the door and dropped his books on the desk. He glanced around the room with a smile: Finally, his own office. His twelve years of airplane-induced-hell finally paid off. Getting laid off from the Lazy Bee might have been the best thing to happen to him after all. Escape from the droid work of mindless view-foil-pushing fools.

Why does this office smell like bananas? Oh yes, Scott said Bruce was into bananas the last few months.

The geek stepped to the window to check out the view, but his foot slipped on the carpet. "Cool, the roof of the Kingdome," he said as he peeled the post-it note from his foot.

It read, "Check the xyz module in the UI. Bruce, your predecessor, said it was a hardware error and there was nothing we could do about it, but it's still as slow as slug slime."

The geek wanted to impress them all, and did as told. That he didn't understand what that high memory address was doing there, that he didn't understand the .001 and the random number generator, nor what the random bit was for, was more than he would admit.

He typed out an e-mail message to Scott: "I checked the routine, it is a hardware error as far as I can tell. Maybe we should ask this Bruce to be more explicit?"

Reply from Scott: "No can do, Bruce bought an island near Jamaica and is no longer available for input on this product. The lucky SOB."

Sun and fun and surf and not a drop of slug slime in sight. Anyone might be open to a little bit of persuasion.

* * * * *

AVERAGE JANE

Before all this happened, Jane lived her life through her beloved books. It was her only avenue of escape. In real life, daring meant buying printed toilet paper or super chunk peanut butter, or even sneaking a peek at the supermarket tabloid headlines.

Just a glance though. Too much was trashy, and she wasn’t that kind of girl.

Face it, Jane, she thought, you are boring.

Harmless, calm, polite little Jane. Always predictable, people just look right through me. Never a word out of place, or even a hair. Funny how I just ran out of patience.

Up until recently, the most exciting thing she had ever done was change the panty hose on the mannequins. How risque, dealing with naked, plastic people with not much detail at all. Not unlike dealing with customers, only the dummies were nicer.

Working in the accessories department of the huge department store was never any girl's dream. Still, customers didn't have to be so cruel. Shop girls were people too.

It was just malicious, saying the only way she could tell her from the mannequin was that the dummy was better dressed. Why do people think they can be so mean? Just because they have money to spend?

Just because you are plain and unassuming doesn't make you dumb and without feelings, she thought.

They were sorry in the end, all of them. But that wasn't the point, they would never be rude or mean or spiteful again.

That was the reason I did it. No, that's not true, it was also for the excitement. Just like glancing at those tabloid headlines.

Scarves and belts all worked very well, and a good strong jewelry chain could cut like a piano wire. She was strong from lifting all those stock boxes and wrestling with mannequins. And of course, they were all caught off guard. . .

”There, there, not to worry. We’ll find something for you.”

She just dumped their bodies in the stairwell and waited for someone to finally find them. Sometimes it took a few days, nobody takes the stairs anymore. That’s as infrequent as good manners.

* * *

From behind the mirror, the police watched the emotions play on the woman's plain face. She was smiling slightly, her hands twisting on her lace handkerchief. The lovely monogram of her mother’s initials was frayed, and the frilly edges were now tattered.

The sympathetic detective watched her in dismay. She was dressed like a street person, with layers and layers of clothing. Only Jane was cleaner. And she was missing the prerequisite bags. He knew she dressed in what she thought was modesty, but then, the old girl was quite old-fashioned.

The poor woman was from a by-gone era when women were called ladies and liked it. And when ladies were certainly not capable of such a murder. Not to mention quite a few of them.

The detectives exchanged glances and went back into the interrogation room. The sympathetic one set down a cup of coffee.

She murmured, “No tea, oh dear. Well, thank you.”

”Sorry, ma’am, all I could do.”

She whispered, “There, there, not to worry.”

The detective then watched on as his partner rudely questioned the woman again. It was routine, for the report. They would close her case, just like every other time she had come in to confess.

The other detective said calmly but coldly, "You claimed to be responsible for the murder of six, no, seven women now, Miss Smithers. That's quite a feat. Tell us what happened."

She said, "At first, the murders happened in my mind. Don't some athletes do that, picture the whole thing in their mind? Muscle memory, I read about it during the Olympics. It's when—"

He yelled, "We don't have time for this! We have the report and your confession, just like every other time. I want to get home. You should stop wasting our time. Women are dying in that store and you're here talking about the athletes and something you read about the Olympics—when was it, years ago?"

Even his partner flinched, and then the nice detective put a hand to her shoulder. It was meant to comfort, she knew, but instead it just annoyed her and for some reason, this time she didn’t want it to show. Instead, she put the cup of hot coffee to her mouth and sipped just a bit.

No need to yell at me, she thought. What a rude man. Just like a customer.

She smiled politely then, her composure quite regained. She asked the rude detective, "Are you going to be looking for evidence in the store stairwells today, Detective? Don’t worry, we’ll find something for you."

* * * * *

GINA DOES

"What a pretty little dolly! What's her name?" said the priest.

"Gina," replied the little girl. It was clear she had been crying, but was acting brave now.

"What a pretty name! Is Gina your very best friend?"

"No. Gina is a bad girl. She wets the bed."

"Well, nobody is perfect," said the priest, hiding his indulgent smile.

"My daddy says good little girls don't wet the bed."

"What about your mommy?"

"Mommy went to Hell. Daddy said she was bad, and that's why he had to hit her so much."

The priest was taken aback. "My goodness, child, is that why you hit Gina?"

"No, I hit her because I love her. Only parents who love their children hit them."

"Did your daddy tell you that?" the priest said, trying to control his anger.

"No, my mommy told me that the night our house burned down."

"The night of the fire? Is that how your mommy died?"

"No, my mommy isn't dead. She's only in Hell."

"But isn't that the same thing, child?" the priest said, gently.

"No, my daddy's dead, my mommy is in Hell. It's got bars and wires and other women in funny, ugly clothes and I can't see her very much anymore."

"Did your mommy kill your daddy? Did she start the fire?"

"No."

"Do you remember what happened that night?"

"No, but Gina does."

"Will Gina tell me what happened?"

"No, she is bad and can't talk about it."

"What do you mean? Can you tell me why she can't talk?"

"She's like daddy."

"She's dead?"

"No, he was mad at my mommy and hit her because he loved her. Then he laid down for a long time and wouldn't talk. My mommy said he was dunk, again."

"Dunk? You mean he was drunk? Is that what Gina told you?"

"No, Gina can't talk. I told you, she's like my daddy."

"I don't understand, child."

The little girl searched her pockets, her face intense with purpose. She pulled out a bright red lighter, a prized possession it would seem. To his horror, she expertly flipped open the flame.

She held it to the dolls clothes, her face innocent and clear, like an angel. The priest watched in horror as the flame spread.

The little girl murmured softly, "Goodbye Gina, I love you so much. Say hello to my daddy."

* * * * *

FAMILY TRADITION

Jade and jasmine and balsam wood: That's how the old man made his money. That was back in the old days when a man could make his fortune on the misfortune of others.

The old coot must have had a good laugh, stealing from those innocents in the Orient. But that was over a hundred years ago. Why begrudge the old man now?

It will all be mine in a matter of minutes, thought Jack, as he adjusted the cravat of his expensive tuxedo. It seemed fitting to buy one for the wedding. He could use it for the funerals too.

He brushed at his slicked-back hair and smelled his hand in satisfaction. Bay-rum, the barber called it.

Fancy man, that’s what he looked like. Something the old man, their father would have called him.

Who would have thought that I would be living the high life? Me, a high school dropout.

Dad, who had taught him everything about being heartless, would be jealous of his good fortune.

Good.

"Too bad you can't see it now, but can't say I'm not glad you're probably dead somewhere. Serves you right for running out on me when I was a kid. Always dreaming, making big plans, even after Mom died. Leaving a little kid like that. . ."

Jack wasn't really dumb, he just lacked enthusiasm for hard work. Make that any kind of work. He wasn't a mechanic in the garage, he just went to pick up broken down cars, or delivered them to people too rich or too busy when the work was all done. That's how he met the old ladies.

That’s how he met these two rich old women on the hill. Jade and Jasmine, the celebrated Heeley twins of legendary beauty. Of course, that was decades ago, their beauty was long since faded. They were the still-innocent daughters of a fanatically over-protective, outrageously rich father. Jack was too young to know about the rumors.

The old man had left them his fortune when he died. They were past middle age then. Too old for the realities of life like marriage and children, but still too full of hope to just wither away.

Jack was planning on marrying one of the hags this morning. He rarely remembered which one, so he called her “sweetie” and “darling girl.”

He knew all the money would go to the surviving sister, he had worked it out just right. The first to go had to be the other one, not his dearly-next-to-be-departed wife. How could the cops suspect something like that? Especially if he was so supportive. If anything, they’d probably suspect the old woman for pushing her sister down the stairs in a fit of jealousy.

Jack laughed. No way could he lose, not on this one.

The old clock chimed the hour, time to get married.

* * *

One old lady said to the other, “It’s only to be expected, it’s morbid curiosity, you see.”

The other nodded and smiled sweetly to their last departing funeral guests.

Jade and jasmine, and balsam wood. Do they still make coffins out of balsam wood?

Jade and Jasmine's father did.

He made plenty of them, one for each of the suitors that came to call. Bounders and rakes, after their virtue and his money in that order, he had claimed.

He never regretted having shot them. Jack had seen the graves in the basement too, when he went down to shovel their coal on one particularly chilly spring night.

That’s how he had “persuaded” them to let him marry into the family. It was perfect, everyone would win. On that, Jade and Jasmine could not disagree.

Blood tells, for him, and for them.

It had been a quiet ceremony, with few in attendance. After all, May and December could be so unseemly, even more so when the woman was the one who was old.

Even fewer came to the funeral just days later. Jack looked so handsome stretched out in his fine tuxedo. He looked so much like his father. But they wouldn't even have to fuss much this time. Not like Jack’s father years before.

That man was a mess, struggling so much that it tipped over their favorite tea table and smashed so much of their father’s lovely china. Real china too, very expensive and hard to replace.

The ladies had refined the technique since then, no more convulsions or pain.

Jade and Jasmine decided to lay Jack next to his father there in the basement. It seemed fitting, another family tradition.

* * * * *

CALENDAR GIRL

JANUARY - My New Years's resolution: lose weight, as usual. Incentive: Jeremy, the hunk who just moved in on my floor.

FEBRUARY - Kaye gave me chocolates for Valentine's Day. She knows I'm trying to lose weight. Oh, well, just this once. . . or twice. . . or three times!

MARCH - Spring is coming, I'm joining a health club. Jeremy loves to work out, and Kaye said she would go with me.

APRIL - Easter, Jeremy stopped by to talk. Kaye was here.

MAY - Memorial day weekend, went camping at the lake with Kaye. Jeremy showed up at the campground. We went fishing and stayed up late talking around the campfire. He looks even better in the dark!

JUNE - School is out, no teaching for two months! Kaye and I have big plans for tans this year. She has a new bikini, I’m still not able to fit into my new suit. I’ll try harder, Jeremy and Kaye both said they would help.

JULY - I have reached my goal, 30 lbs lost. Kaye says we should have a party and invite everyone, especially Jeremy. It will give us a chance to spend time together in some place other than a stinky gym all covered in sweat.

AUGUST - I saw Kaye and Jeremy together, they didn't see me. How long has this been going on? That two-faced bitch! That bum!

SEPTEMBER - Jeremy came over, he was so upset about Kaye. But accidents happen. How could she have known those mushrooms were poisonous. She just loves. . . er, loved mushrooms on pizza. I’m just lucky I am still watching my weight, else I’d be dead too.

OCTOBER - Police were here again, asking about Jeremy. Jeremy, the jealous type, and Kaye was such a tease. How should I know how much time they spent together? After all, they kept some things from me.

NOVEMBER - Jeremy was found innocent. I really must congratulate him, maybe take him some cookies, or that pizza he loves. Maybe it will remind him of Kaye. He said that he loved her, maybe he should love her to death.

DECEMBER - I should lose weight, but who cares? Prison food is so fattening and there is nothing to do around here but eat anyway. I don’t regret workouts at the gym, but I sure do miss teaching my botany class.

* * * * *

THE BAD NEIGHBORHOOD

It wasn't the desperate screaming in the alley below that startled Leo Deebs from his sleep, it was the abrupt, strangled halt.

Only a moment later, the shouts started, then the barking dogs. In a moment, both were drowned out by the sirens, almost. He watched the reflection of the blinking motel sign on the curtains fade into the violent flash of lights from the police cars.

Leo couldn't go back to sleep anyway. In the hall, people milled around, mumbled too low to make out.

Must be something to see, he thought. They would go away soon enough.

Or maybe it was only a bad dream, pepperoni-provoked fantasy. The lights, the noise, the sounds of people: It was all the same as before.

Leo stumbled to the bathroom to find some antacid. I really should lay off the pizza so close to bed time, he thought, watching the tablets disappear into the fizz.

* * *

Outside, the ambulance slowly slid away with no lights, no sirens. It was too late to do any good, no sense making a fuss now: The man was thoroughly dead.

All around, the neighbors looked down on the alley below, where only moments before, the body had contorted in its final horrible and noisy dance.

"Poor Mr. Deebs," said an old woman to no one.

"Was it a robber?" some old man asked of another.

"He was robbed all right, but the robber didn't kill him. It was his heart again."

"Just like before, only this time he didn't make it."

"Yeah, this really is getting to be a bad neighborhood."

* * * * *

RIVER ROCKS

This time, things felt different, and Lynnie didn't want to go. She didn't have any excuse, it was just another feeling like she'd had before—like the time she sprained her ankle or when the twins got locked in the mall past hours.

Usually, she liked fishing, though she didn't actually like to catch fish. She felt sorry for them. They were just creatures going about their business when suddenly they were yanked out of the water with a hook in their lip only to end up in somebody's frying pan. It made her wonder how she would feel if something like that happened to her mom or dad.

But then she remembered the sound of the river. Lynnie could listen for hours, watching the tiny white caps flowing over the rocks beneath the surface. There was life down there—fish and frogs, plants and bugs, all kinds of algae and worms. It was like looking into a secret world behind mottled glass, liquid and thick and distorting. Sometimes she put her hand in, just to be part of the mystery, but it was not the same as being there. She was always the intruder, looking in.

The family piled into the backseat of their dad's beloved 1956 Pontiac Coupe while he tried to fit all the camping gear into the trunk. But they weren't little kids anymore, Lynnie and her three older brothers. Gus would be in high school in the fall. He was only five years older, but already he knew everything.

The twins, Jake and Luke, were half-way in-between them in age, but one taller and the other wider than Gus. They hated books and computers, preferring sports and TV. They made her sit in the middle, then wrestled amongst themselves to see who got to sit by the window. It wasn't until she got an elbow to the lip that their mom told them to flip a coin. Then she had to give them the coin. They fought about that as well.

”Why don’t you give them another,” said her father. “Then they’ll both have one and no one will have a reason to complain.”

”Why don’t you take it back, then they’ll both have none,” said Gus.

”Hey, shut up,” the twins said together.

"Are you still bleeding?" her mom asked Lynnie, but didn't wait for a reply, just handed her an already-used tissue and added, “Don’t get any on the seat.”

It wasn't that her parents were neglectful about these things, it's just that Lynnie preferred not to say. She liked books even more than Gus did, and she didn't like being around people at all. Everyone thought she was weird because she seemed to talk to herself all the time. But really stories were more interesting when you made the characters say and do things your own way. Like brothers who let you sit by the window.

They finally arrived at a campsite with as much turmoil as usual. Their mom said, "I'll unpack. You go fishing, I need some quiet."

The boys didn't argue, and their dad seemed relieved. He loved fishing as much as he loved that old car. He kissed their mom and handed Lynnie a bamboo fishing pole—the one he’d used as a boy. She knew because he told them every time they came here. But instead of a hook at the end of the line, this time a cork was tied.

The boys laughed, but he said, "I know you like to watch the water, Lynnie."

Meaning she didn’t like to catch fish, and she certainly wouldn’t eat them. Beans and fried potatoes was usually her fare here. Once her mother gave up on making her eat the fried fish, everyone seemed happier.

They walked through the woods on a path covered by a tunnel of ferns taller than even their dad. The boys ran ahead. She soon couldn't hear them for the sound of the water.

Her dad said, "I'm going upstream. We'll have lunch in an hour."

Lynnie didn't remember this place. Either they hadn't been here before or at least not since she was old enough to remember. Her brothers were upstream too. She headed the other way, but the bank was overgrown. Lynnie wanted to cross, as it looked easier to walk on the other shore.

She edged around a clump of alder stretching out over the water, then started across a fallen log. When she got to the middle she couldn't help but stare down. The water was hypnotic, it made her dizzy. She put her arms out to steady herself, but the log wasn't strong, it was rotten. Even with the sound of the water, she heard it break with her weight.

Lynnie fell into the water, and she let go of the fishing pole. She watched it float away, thinking how their dad loved it like an old pet. She meant to sigh, but felt the sharp sting as water went up her nose.

Not a good swimmer, Lynnie tried to put her feet down. The river had never seemed so deep before, and the current was very fast. She was being swept away.

Her arms flailed, trying to steer, until she finally felt solid ground. She sat near the shore, but still in the water, and looked both up and down the river. For some reason, Lynnie couldn't see very far.

Did they see her fall in? Which side was she on now? Lynnie thought to call out, but the sound came out more whimper than yell. She was very tired, and her nose still hurt like she'd snorted up a bee-sting.

It was then that she noticed the rocks. They were the prettiest here that she'd ever seen. She picked up one and put it in her pocket. A breeze brushed her face, it smelled like damp flowers, and Lynnie was surprised that her nose didn't hurt now at all.

But something wasn't right.

Every sound was muffled.

She wasn’t alone.

She looked around frantically to see eyes everywhere. Everyone was staring at her. None of them blinked. They were the eyes of fish, and their fish bodies gently waved in the air.

No, in the water.

She was still underwater!

One of the fish swam forward a bit. He said, "Thanks for the cork, but you must not stay. Close your eyes now, we'll get you home that way."

Lynnie closed her eyes, and the next thing she knew, someone was slapping her lightly on the face. It was their dad, he was holding her hand, and he looked rather pale. Their mom was crying, and her brothers, for once, were quiet.

They quickly packed up and drove straight home. No one said anything all the way, but Lynnie could still feel the river rock in her pocket. She'd always remember today.

* * * * *

PIANO MUSIC

Pianos are wonderful things. Such lovely music—my sister makes her living with pianos. In fact, she's a concert pianist of world renown. I know, because she reminds me of it every chance she gets. She has it all: talent, money, beauty.

And what do I have? A career as her secretary, watching out for her temperamental moods, catering to her whims. If not for me, she would never have made it through that music school. I paid for everything.

It should have been a labor of love, she is my sister, after all. Everybody loves my sister. I love my sister. Tonight, I'm going to love her to death.

Piano wire, great for strangling, that's what they say. And when it's done, I can put the string back. I'll steal it tonight when she is asleep. She won't notice, no one uses the keys that far up on the scale, not even my sister.

When she sits at practice, I'll sneak up and do it. They'll think it was a crazed fan, I'll make sure of that.

Haven't there been letters, threats, fanatical gifts of devotion? When it's all over, they'll never guess the instrument of death was her own piano.

* * *

The police detective tried to comfort the woman, “It's always hard, these freak accidents.”

Another said, “How did the top fall on your sister’s head anyway?”

”It was rickety, I should have said something, but she gave me everything, I didn’t want to complain. That piano was our mother’s, she left it to me. . .”

The musician of renown couldn’t continue.

The first one said, “What was she doing, changing the strings?”

The other said it for her, “Looks that way.”

The devoted sister, finally getting all the attention. Sad.

* * * * *

PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS

"What are you thinking, beautiful?"

"I'm thinking the groom should be marrying me. He only picked her because of the money. Penniless cousins aren't nearly so attractive."

"Why do you want that sort of man anyway? Why don't you stick with someone harmless and faithful, like me?"

"You’re nice all right, but you're also boring.

"Nice and boring, the death toll for a guy's ego."

Death toll, she thought as the man walked away. What a lovely headline: Wedding bells turn to sorrow. I could write romantic suspense, she mused, the idea sprouting like a weed.

* * *

Who could have known her thoughts would turn out to be so close to the truth? They were just joking, playing around. Maybe the groom had been listening.

The bride choked on her wedding cake.

Dead on her own wedding day.

Fortunate for the groom in the long run, he would get everything. Once he got over the sorrow. A few hundred million should do the trick. Death, not divorce, so much for pre-nuptial agreements.

The cops took the cake to be tested. Cops are stupid. It wasn't in there anyway. Just luck that the groom stuffed it into the bride’s mouth first. Or was it? A bit too much celebration, sugar kills. Too funny.

"I wonder," she mused, glancing to the powder in her purse. The little vial was ever so convenient. Champagne, cake, it could be mixed with anything. She didn’t care about the bride, she wanted him dead too. He was crying, poor sap. Well, perhaps it might be useful after all.

"I'm ever so devastated for you," she cooed to the weeping groom as she slipped the vial into his pocket.

Behind her, she could hear an officer say, “Sir, I’m sorry to ask you now, but could you come with me.”

It wasn’t really a question.

* * * * *

In the Beginning

In the beginning, God made everything.

Carrie looked around the produce aisle.

Did she just say that out loud? No one noticed—at least, no one seemed to be looking at her in that same strange way that was so annoying.

She picked up an eggplant and felt its waxy peel. Wax would make it slippery. Maybe they'd give her wax if she asked.

"Are those on special?" someone said from behind.

He couldn't see she was shopping for two.

"I think so." When she turned, his chin dropped. He hurried away without any eggplants of his own.

Carrie put one in her cart and moved on.

The watermelon looked too familiar, she decided as she looked down. She went for the cantaloupes, thumped a few, then lifted one to shake. No sound. Carrie tried another. There was comfort in the swishing sound of seeds.

With her eyes closed, she breathed in the scent and pictured the juicy flesh, glowing with life, orange as the dawn of man. Her fingers found the end where the stem had been: the life-line, not cut, but snapped off. The spot was soft, just right. She felt the grit of dirt on her fingers and thought of Mother Earth.

Someone was near. She could see him through her lashes. He was staring. He couldn't see her condition though: She was hidden behind the honeydew. She pushed her cart away. He followed.

Carrie glanced at the plastic bags of pre-cut salad, nothing natural there. Caesar, European blend, cabbage cut into coleslaw.

Found in the cabbage patch, they don't make babies like that anymore, she thought, rubbing her stomach again. Her belly button was sticking out. She thought to push it back in, but was distracted by the smell of pesticide.

No, it was aftershave. The man waved a bunch of spinach in her face. "Is this good spinach?"

How should I know, she thought, can't you see I have other things on my mind? But she said, "Yes, it makes good salad."

"I was going to put it in my lasagna, I'm having a party."

I'm having a baby, go bother someone else. She smiled.

He rubbed a spinach leaf between his fingers as he stared at her breasts.

"I'm sure it will be lovely," she said and pulled her cart back for retreat.

"How do I wash it?" he said quickly, not willing to let her go. "I heard spinach can be sandy, gritty, I mean. A bit, you know, dirty."

Ask me about diapers and baby wipes and wax to make the baby slip out easier. She said, "Washing it can ruin the vitamin content and leach the flavor away. Just chop it up and throw it in."

He smiled, opened his mouth, but Carrie stepped away from her cart. His words choked off as his eyes looked down and got big and a bit horrified. He wandered away.

Serves him right, she thought. Serving gritty pasta when he was hitting on somebody’s mom.

Someone else was behind her then. He grabbed her by the shoulders and said near her ear, "Are you all right, little lady? Need any help?"

A Texas man by the sound of him. A cowboy by the smell of him.

Her sense of smell was overwhelmed of late. She fought back a gag.

"I'm fine." Mothers are stronger than steel. And curse you for a Texas man. My husband is a Texas man. My husband did this to me, then ran away to work and left me here to cope.

"Whoa, you look pretty far gone," he said. "When is it due?"

"Two weeks, three days and twenty-seven minutes ago."

"Well, good luck, ma'am."

He tipped his hat. She watched him walk away. He had that bow-legged swagger that came from too much riding and knowing you look pretty good in your jeans. Her husband had that look, he was worse than the Apple in Eden.

It was then that she saw it: the huge stack of brown salvation. Carrie waddled over, touched one, then another. Bags of potatoes, ten pounds each, and just the thing. She grabbed one with a grunt and carried it back to her cart.

She waited. Nothing came. She went for another. Then another. But there was nothing but a pain in her back. She rubbed it and tried to stretch.

"You're gonna hurt yourself doin' that." The produce boy gave her the eye as he piled his pears into a pyramid. He didn't bother to look at his work, just set them in a neat pattern, stems up, plump bottoms down. Occasionally, he would toss one aside, he knew all about things that were over-ripe.

Carrie laughed, but felt a dull ache pass through her body. She stopped, it went away.

He ambled over, too tall for his frame. He needed to fill out, she thought, get some meat on his bones. Didn't his mother feed him? Carrie felt the wetness then, the double dampness at her chest. She wrapped her arms around to hide the streaks, then let them fall away.

Accidents happen, people just have to accept that. But they hadn't expected this, hadn't planned for a family this soon. It took a while to get used to the idea, now she was more than ready.

"I'll help you," he said as he set the last pear on the pile. "How many more do you need?

"None, I'm done."

It was a surrender. Walking, swimming, shopping—nothing helped. This baby was permanent. Years from now, instead of walking it to kindergarten, she'd be walking around with her legs bowed from the weight, just like that cowboy.

She aimed the cart for the check-out, leaning heavily all the way. She was tired, and hot. Carrie slowly put the items on the humming black belt and moved forward in the line.

Twelve or less. She didn't bother to count, somebody did it for her.

"You got one too many," a man close behind her said, and very rudely too.

"Amen to that," she muttered, grabbing at her belly.

That dull pain again, worse this time. She grunted and held her breath.

Then came a swishing sound as her water broke and splashed all over her feet.

The rude man in the express line behind her had to jump back too. So there is a blessing, even in that, she thought.

As they hauled her away, the check-out clerk called, "Do you want your produce, ma'am?"

"No, thanks, I've got my own."

It was then that she saw the other pregnant woman in line, looking at her with envy.

* * * * *

THE SENSIBLE BRIDE

How could the bride have known? Formal gardens, perfect weather, impeccable arrangements—the whole affair could have been written up in the manual of perfection under: My Perfect Wedding.

It was not a wedding of overwhelming romance, nor a reluctant wedding either. They had always been good friends. He wanted his inheritance, she thought it was time.

Convenience? Is that what it was?

That's what they used to call it in the days of arranged marriages. But the couple made the deal this time, not the parents. They were terribly sensible about the whole thing, strangely old fashioned in these modern days. Right down to their borrowed wedding clothes, traditional vows, and plain white cake.

How could she know then, as she stood before the world and said her vows, that there was any other choice?

It was at the reception that a lost passion pulled the bride aside.

"You should have married me," he said.

It took a moment to sink in. At first, she thought he was joking—poor taste, but in character. A cautious look into his eyes showed that he was not. It made her feel funny.

The bride had felt no butterflies at her wedding, but there was something larger there now. Something dull, and heavy, and threatening to break free. It pushed her breath away.

She lead him into a quiet corner and said,"My God, you're only now just deciding that?"

"When I saw you up there beside another man. . . I never thought it would be anyone else but me."

The muscles on the side of his jaw tensed, he could be a movie star for the way he did that. She had always found that to be a most attractive feature.

"I never knew you felt this way. Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you stop the wedding?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he said roughly.

Of course. That would not have been the proper thing to do, and he was certainly quite proper. Weren't they all? She said as much.

"You're right, of course. How sensible you are. It's a terribly sensible day, isn't it?"

"You sound bitter, my dear. No second thoughts now, it's quite unbecoming for a brand new bride."

"Brand new bride, is there any other kind?"

He grinned wide, the muscles on the side of his jaw relaxed into their devastating dimples.

"Always the charmer, aren't you?" the bride replied.

She couldn't help but smile at his boyishness, his simplicity. She wanted to rumple his hair. His perfectly groomed hair.

"You always thought so," he said. "I wonder that we never quite got together."

He touched her hand wistfully, then the spidery-gossamer veil that was made when her grandmother was wed. With him, it was an act of longing, of possession: "You should have been mine."

The day was getting too hot.

"I was always waiting, I suppose you were, too," she said.

"Yes, waiting to see who was round the next bend."

"And who was it there that was worth waiting for?"

Was that a stab of jealousy? No, it couldn't be, she was a married woman, this was her wedding day.

"No one of consequence." Then he sighed and turned, full profile. Just as good, strong chin, perfect. And he always knew how to use it to advantage.

"Still, you had your fun," she said, putting her hands together to stop them from shaking.

He smiled, still looking far away.

"Wild oats and all that? Well, it's true, that's the way of it. A man doesn't realize what he's missing until you're gone."

"Cliche, but to the point." She suddenly felt the weight of the day. "I say, I could use a drink."

"You sit here, my dear. I'll get us some punch." He winked and was off.

"Gin would be better," she called.

He turned back with a grin and gave her his slight salute. His eyes were twinkling, but in such a glassy sort of way. Not true warmth. Was that a look of conquest?

How cynical, and on my wedding day.

Moments later, he returned with two tall glasses festooned with all manner of fruit and rainy-day paraphernalia.

"Umbrellas in the drinks? My mother is a silly, sentimental old woman," she said, laughing.

"We have no right to talk," he said, quite serious now.

She sighed heavily and busied herself with the drink. His nearness was quite as intoxicating. He never did wear men's cologne, but smelled of leather and horses and dirt. She wondered how he managed it in the middle of such a posh affair.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said.

"You are filled with original quips today, aren't you?"

"I am filled with you."

At his tone, she looked up. His eyes burned, she swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry, yet she didn't think to drink. He moved slightly towards her. She moved more.

The kiss was long, tender at first—it almost hurt in the end. His hand brushed her breast and she felt an ache deep inside her chest. Then she realized it had been there all along. It felt like her heart was crying.

He broke away abruptly, "I can't stand this!"

And he was gone, his drink left behind. The bride finished hers, then his as well, then fanned herself as best she could. She only glanced up when her name was called from far away.

I must get back, I have guests.

She smiled, and shook hands with people who claimed to have known her as a child. She received sloppy kisses and dry, shallow pecks. The bride must pose here. She must be seen there. It was all so traditional, so predictable, so sensible.

The bride felt like screaming.

Her mother sidled up and grabbed her by the arm. The woman hadn't stopped smiling since the engagement was announced. The grin had widened today, it was almost obscene. The older woman was now a large ginger tabby, lapping up the cream.

"Have you seen Daddy?" asked the bride.

"Oh, my dear, he's probably off telling those boring stories with his old Army friends. Never mind about him, you have guests."

"Yes, Mother. It's all so beautiful. Thank you."

The older woman kissed her on the cheek, then wiped at the gloss left behind. It was not from affection, it was from too many umbrellas. The bride laughed, for her mother was never one to lose control. She was a frivolous woman, but impeccably proper in public. Usually.

The bride then realized how much this meant to her parents. After all, she was the first and only bride in the family. Her five older brothers had been married for years. She knew they had a betting pool and wondered who had finally won.

It seemed that most had given up on her, but never her mother. Mothers never really do admit defeat, do they?

She wondered if they would have children, if she would be a mother someday. Maybe. It wasn't something they had discussed.

The bride felt a sense of dread. What have I done? What have I done? It must have shown on her face. A gentle voice said, "All too much for you."

It wasn't a question, it was an understanding. She felt the tears well up, and her father held her close.

"It's not unusual for brides to cry, my dear. Remember John's wedding? That girl was sobbing all the way down the aisle. One would think she was being dragged down and forced into it."

"Those were tears of happiness at finally landing old Johnny," she half-laughed, half-sobbed.

"Come into the library, my dear. We can chat."

They didn't talk of love and hope and futures. He poured her another gin, sans both umbrella and tonic. They talked of horses and breeding and races. Her father was a wonderful man, always knew just the right thing to do.

Her tears long gone, she thanked him.

"They say the father's only job is to pay for the wedding, but I'll be damned if I let you down, my dear."

He took her shoulders and looked into her face. "You are my own darling girl, and that is enough of that."

It was the way that his voice cracked at the end that made her cry again. They hugged each other, she wiped at his tear, then they released, reached, and finished their drinks in one gulp.

Both let out hearty sighs, then burst into laughter.

"And now we are ready to face the world again," he said.

She nodded, and that was the last she talked to her father that day. It was enough, he had summed up their lifetime of caring. It didn't take much, not flowers or music or crepe paper bells. But it was enough.

The first thing she saw was the other man talking to some pretty girls. He always found the pretty girls. Or maybe they always found him. Occasionally, he would look around until his eyes caught her, always trapping her for long seconds.

He had such a smug look on his face.

Did he think she would have an affair?

Did he think she would leave her new husband?

Her head was spinning. Just where was this prize she had won? He was deemed the most eligible bachelor for three years running. And she, a spinster past thirty, had caught him. Did anyone know it was not a love match? Did it show on their faces? Did anyone know that they were both driven by a sense of self-purpose, the goals just happened to be mutually beneficial.

"How romantic," she said softly.

The bride looked for the other man again, he was looking her way. He held up his drink in a silent toast. His eyes were smiling, but he had that quirk to his mouth.

She had seen it before, that twist in the corner of his lip. It came when he was bragging of a recent triumph. It could have been sexual conquest, or a win at the track, or even beating a traffic ticket. It was anything he had won. Had he just won her?

He must have thought so. A man brushed by, pecking her on the cheek. "Buck up darling, you look divine. I won quite a pile today, you know."

It was her brother, John, followed closely by his brood of boys and a struggling wife. They were expecting their fifth child. Bets were rampant that it would be another boy: It was family tradition.

She smiled. "My pleasure." Then she thought better of it, and thought of his wife. The woman was better off at home in bed. She said as much: "You should be home in bed." But the woman had ambled past by then, too busy herding her boys.

Perhaps I should have stayed home in bed today, too.

Across the gardens, the bride heard a burst of manly laughter. The crowd parted slightly, she saw her new husband. He was not the tallest, nor the shortest. Not the thinnest, nor the most burly. He was an ordinary man, with a charming sense of humor and a quick wink her way. She lifted her glass in toast.

Another voice sounded close to her ear. The other man said, "Toasting your new husband?"

"And why not, he's a brave man."

"Brave to marry you, you mean?" he said, his face in his glass to hid his intrigue.

"Brave to marry anyone. I wonder if I shall regret what I have done more than what I have not."

He thought for a moment, but she knew he wouldn't figure it out. Instead, he said, "That's quite profound, let me think on it a bit."

"Think on it forever, I have other guests."

She didn't see his surprised look, the bride didn't look back at all. Still, she felt strange, empty for some reason. Had she let the right man slip through her hands after all? Maybe it was all the gin, for she wasn't used to so much drinking. It just wasn't sensible, too many calories and one couldn't drive, and the headaches. . .

Shouldn't have a headache on my wedding night.

"I must get some food," she said and walked to the buffet table.

She heaped her plate, and ignored the comments of the old ladies nearby.

"Married now, doesn't have to watch her figure."

"Suppose she might be eating for two? Can't think of why else he would marry the likes of her."

"They say the first child can come at any time."

"No, he married her to get his money."

"The same is true of her. Some women will do anything for money."

The bride could only laugh. It was that, or cry. What she wanted to do was run away, hide from it all.

What have I done?

In a quiet little corner, behind a palm, she settled down in welcome solitude. Occasionally, a few children ran by, some with a thoughtful word to the bride, others with just a giggle.

It was somehow reassuring. Naive, sweet, little children, versus vindictive, bitter, old women. What could happen in a life time to change one to the other? Was it just growing old?

I need a drink, but punch, no more liquor.

The bride stood, then froze in place. Her new husband was standing quite close to a very pretty woman. Too close, too pretty. She could have been a model, or an actress. She was that attractive. Her gown was that expensive.

The bride felt another stab, this time it was definitely jealousy. Well, that's a good sign, isn't it? A wife is supposed to be jealous of her husband. She held her breath, thinking how foolish she must look, hiding behind the palm, spying on her groom.

If she turned her head just so, she could hear them murmuring. Occasionally, a word rose higher with emotion. The groom bent his head toward the woman: The kiss was long and sweet. He broke away, and the woman fled.

The bride thought women only fled in romance novels.

She blinked, was this fiction, or life? He sat then, sipping his umbrella. The bride slipped out of the palm.

"A final good bye, my dear?"

He patted the seat beside him as he sipped his drink. "A few actually. I dare say we broke a few hearts today."

"Do you think it will work out then?" she asked, sipping from his drink. Gin and tonic, heavy on the tonic.

"I suppose we'll have to find out."

"My family doesn't divorce, it's simply not done."

"Nor mine."

He sounded old just then, did he know it, she wondered.

"Until death us do part, I remember, we both promised. Do you suppose we did the right thing?"

He seemed to know exactly what she meant. Had he seen her earlier with the other man? Was he also having thoughts of the second kind?

"All things considered, love," he said, "those others had their fair chance, yet we ended up with one another. There's something to that, I would say."

She took his empty glass, ran her finger around the rim.

"Yes, I suppose there is. But the question is, are we smarter than all the others, or just the opposite? Do you think friendship is enough to build a marriage, a life together?"

He laughed then, taking her busy hand in his.

"Actually, I was wondering if love was ever enough. Friendship is much more sensible. I plan on being old for much longer than I have been young. We already know that we'll still be friends after the passion is gone."

"So, you plan on having affairs? How nice of you to tell me ahead of time, saves all the nasty rumor-mongering, all that sneaking around."

"No affairs, not at the moment."

He said it all too casually, like he'd already thought it all out. The bride wished the glass was not empty.

"I suppose it might get expensive, mistresses, I mean," he said. "I had set my heart on the house on the coast instead."

"How practical you are! And I was only planning on a new doormat, perhaps a new dish towel or two."

"Think big things, my dear, we'll have new doormats on every door, and a whole new set of dish towels, maybe even one for every day. Together there is much we can achieve."

He squeezed her hand and she felt comfortable. No, she felt safe. At that moment, she wished he were the last man on earth, because she knew he would still be hers. Yes, that was safe.

She had no need to say it, but she said it anyway, "Yes, I suppose you're right."

He smiled, gave her a quick peck on the forehead. "Well, must be off. I have to thank the best man, and all that. I'll see you at dinner."

"I have a few things to do as well."

He kissed her hand before he left, one final gesture of caring.

Not a handsome man, my husband. But there is something there. Dynamic? Yes, that and more. People seem drawn to him. I am drawn to him. Well, goodness, I hope so, after all, I have the wedding night to get through.

Dinner was the same as the day: sensible, traditional, perfect. Some might say uneventful, but boredom didn't cross her mind.

Her father-in-law sat on one side, her husband on the other. The view down the table was disturbing. In the dull glow of candle light, the other man seemed mesmerized: He was the moth to her flame.

Or was she only thinking fanciful things? Too much liquor, and her stomach still felt funny. She asked the waiter for milk.

"No, make that lemonade!"

It wouldn't do for a bride to be drinking milk on her wedding day, the old ladies might talk. She laughed heartily then, it surprised both of the men around her, they didn't know there was a punch line, but she never was very good at telling jokes.

"Are you all right, love?"

"Terribly tired. What time is it?" she said with a yawn.

"Steady, my girl," said her father-in-law, an older version of her husband.

Lord, these were good men. So was her father, and her five brothers. But her mother and mother-in-law were flighty. Heavens, am I frivolous and don't realize it? Or does life with these strong men turn a woman into a fluff ball?

The bride started to giggle, only stopped at the glare from the other man. Was that lust in his eyes? Yes, she had seen it before, but only once for her. She had turned him down, but knew when he was on the prowl. What more tantalizing piece could there be than another man's bride?

Ah, so that was it. She knew then that the other man only wanted what he could no longer have. Another cliché. He was quite the cliché himself: old, well worn, used up. Not like my husband, strong and steady. The kind a girl would want to marry.

"And I just did."

"Pardon?" said her father-in-law.

"I think we better call it a day, Dad," said the groom.

The older man winked, and the couple rose to leave. It was the first unusual note in the perfect day.

"Aren't you going to wait until dinner is finished?" her mother said. "And we have rice to throw and the car is all ready. Your brothers spent hours on it. We need pictures and—"

"No, dear," the groom said, leaning over to plant a dry peck on her check. "It's been perfectly lovely, but we are both exhausted."

He spoke to the rest: "Please, finish up, make merry. We have other plans."

The crowd roared its approval and they were thankfully off. The bride fell asleep in the car on the way to the hotel. He touched her softly, and she opened her eyes with a sigh.

"I was only dozing."

“You were drooling.”

“The honeymoon seems to be over.”

He smiled. "Shall I carry you?"

"That would be a spectacle, as well as inconvenient."

"And of course, we have a marriage of convenience."

She smiled too, and they walked to their suite. They couldn't help but get curious stares, still dressed in their wedding finery.

In their room, he poured their complimentary champagne, not a good year, but no sense in wasting. They drank a toast, only one.

"No more for me, you wouldn't want your bride to pass out."

"I confess, I'm a bit drowsy myself. It has been a strenuous day, all that socializing wears a man out. I'll just take a shower to wake me up. I promise I won't make it a cold one."

The bride slipped out of her mother's wedding dress, draped it across a chair, touched it lovingly. In the mirror, a haggard woman in a long satin slip and a wilted flower crown peered back with a crooked grin.

I must remember to get my veil back, my own daughter might want it someday. She smiled, wondered how her grandmother had felt, how her mother had felt, how her daughter would feel.

"How foolish women get over weddings."

I really am tired, perhaps I could use a shower myself.

She removed the flowers and tossed them over the champagne bottle, then walked to the bathroom as she listened to her husband sing in the shower.

The bride moved the curtain back, and noted that her husband really did have quite a nice backside. He had dimples too, who would have guessed.

She slipped of her things and joined him, because conserving water is quite a sensible thing to do.

* * * * *

For Example

Pass me another whiskey sour, and I'll tell you the tale. It's on days like these, made for stories and fishing poles, that mankind moves at the slow pace I believe he was meant to achieve.

Sometimes, they call me Kirby. I suppose that's good enough for those times I don't remember my own name. Say it with a Southern drawl, if you please, it sounds nobler that way. For most other times, they just call me the town drunk.

It's not that I'm lazy or even hard up. I just never have worked for a living. I decided early on in life that work was too hard for the likes of me. Something always comes up to assist me in my loftier pursuits, which usually has something to do with philosophy.

First, I lived with my Daddy, then at the schools they so graciously sent me to attend. Money always made up for lack of achievement when enrollment time came around. One lovely, peach-blossom day right after another, I just floated by in life, listening to my teachers in those fine old schools built with old family money for children such as myself.

Never learned a trade—too hard, like I said. My Daddy was a Southern gentleman of some academic achievement, a college professor, no less. He didn't take it well when I told him I preferred to be a student of life. If such was the case, he said, my learning ways were through and my doing days were starting.

Never have heard from my Daddy again, nor my loving Mama. Never have been back to the homestead, in fact. I suppose the Yankees burned it down in the big war. I heard they did that sort of thing in Georgia. What a pity, nice place, my Daddy's ancestral home.

You could hardly tell by looking now what a fine gentleman I have come to be. Begging comes easy to someone who looks so pitiful, you see. They figure I'm worthless here, but that's not me. I let a man believe what he will, it's easier that way, and less stressful for all concerned when nobody has to think.

Since I am now a true and bonafide student of human nature, I have achieved my ultimate goal. I have a noble soul, and one day, I, too, may have followers who see my better side. Not to say I believe myself divine like the good Jesus Christ. Nor the seeker of truth like Plato or Socrates.

I subject myself to those better men and fade in their dazzling light.

Yet, I have my own point of light in this universe, as we all do. But there would be those who could see the finer points of my own feeble glow in that crowded night sky. It is to those blessed souls, those who would hear my thoughts and dreams, that I am so very grateful.

I write these stories down, ones about folks I know, and send them back East. Folks back there can't get enough of life out here. Too sad or cowardly to travel, I suppose, but too unhappy to give up the dream of someday making it away from their drab and humble existence.

Wild West, they call it here. Deceived, I call them there. They don't want the truth though. Never that. Their search is for life on a larger scale. Remember, I told you, I am not like any of the Holy Trinity, not even the sacred seekers of truth.

No sir, folks around here figure I'm poor and that's true enough. But most philosophers have been that way. Never can be a slave to gold and the truth besides. One must choose their master and be true to that one and only.

Me, I prefer the real things in life: a good steak, a dry bed, and fine whiskey, not watered, if you please, with a good drop of sour on occasion to keep me from scurvy. I suppose from that, you might guess the master I have chosen.

Still, I always figured that folks could learn a lot from a poor soul like me. That's not true, my soul isn't poor, only my pockets. Tell that to the sheriff, or the barkeep, or even the preacher man who comes through. They can never see the grand scheme, the purpose of the universe.

Why even your ordinary Joe on the street has a hard time understanding what's in front of his own face. My fellow man rarely sees past the obvious. Women are better at tolerating human nature, I find, which always make me think of my dear Mama.

Fine creatures, women, generous and forgiving, if you don't push them too far.

No sir, never rely on your fellow man, I always say. It's the women who know the true meaning of life. It's the life-givers who understand what is what.

Didn't Eve talk Adam into taking a bite of that infamous apple? She would chose life outside of Eden, where she had a say in how things went. None of this "Lord told me this," and "Lord told me that." No sir, no way.

He thinks too much of himself, does Adam, what with the Lord creating man first from clay. Never can make a man mind his Mama or his wife when the Lord takes a hand.

But then, didn't Cleopatra have those Roman generals chewing on their own entrails from desire? She took a serpent to her heart, just like Eve in her way, rather than let a man have his way. I am not sure I would have been that stubborn, but then I say that being a bonafide man myself.

And what of Queen Elizabeth of England and the Empress Catharine of all of Russia: fine rulers of foreign lands. Women noted for the finer things in life: art, music, beauty. Not that they were adverse to war, but it was not their own preference, that is my understanding.

I could give you examples all day, but I think you get my point.

I say that it's the women who run the world. It's the women who let a man dream of his own glory. Or knock him so far down that he may never get up. But women are content to let the world unfold as it would. It's only when a man pushes too far that women must take a hand.

Take Silver Loop City, for example.

Things are way more quiet around here than they used to be. This saloon used to be one of seven in this fine town of Silver Loop City. Now this pitiful one barely hangs on. I don't know what I would do if the Lucky Lady closed down.

I suppose I could find another place to observe life on the grand scale that I have become so accustomed. But here, I know what to expect. Here, I have my patrons, and my fine, lovely Priscilla. Besides, it's not that the town is dying, like so many in these days of the rush for riches.

Silver Loop has the railroad traveling through, and a wide, muddy river besides. I often soak my fishing hook in that old river. It was a fine day such as this, with men reflecting on their prosperity, that it all started.

It was close to election, and that fine Mayor Kelly wanted to keep his finer job. His main opponent was rumored to be Draper Hoggs, business man and financier, owner of the stockyards of this growing city.

The town spread twice-fold since the railroad came through, and men will have their desires for riches and power. They paid no attention to the affairs of true state, those of which makes a woman happy.

They provided a new millinery shop, and a woman's emporium complete with café. The men figured the upstanding women of town would be happy enough in their imported lace and their refined tea parties.

Student of nature that I am, I do not propose to thoroughly understand the female creature, so I cannot tell you the true thoughts of the women at the time. Suffice it to say, all was going well enough. But, I do understand the male well enough, being one, so with the election also came the competition.

Mayor Kelly had always relied on the permanent citizens for his position. But with the burgeoning ranches and newly arrived cowboys owing their livelihood to Draper Hoggs, the mayor's post seemed to be in jeopardy for the first time in seventeen years.

It was then that Mayor Kelly began the scheme: to romance the votes of the cowboys from Master Hoggs. How better to impress a man of the saddle than a bath, a whiskey, and a woman of low moral fiber. After a hard cattle drive, few things feel better, I am told, and no telling in what order.

Draper Hoggs, a man of integrity and grit, decided the plan was a sound one, and did the same for other citizens of the town. Soon, every man could have a free drink from his favorite candidate. It would seem the favorite could change with the wind and the saloon a man was in.

Which brings me back to the saloons. At that time, there were only two, but since they were doing so well, others opened up, seemingly overnight. Women who would make their own way in life flocked in just as fast, coming in by boat and by rail, some came by stage and some rode their own horses or drove their own wagons. I surely do admire a woman of her own industry.

I heard complaints of these circumstances, a sentiment that was shared by the good ladies of Silver Loop City. The sound of tin music could be heard up and down the streets. Men lined the sidewalks at night in various stages of inebriation—families forgotten, dinners growing cold, cows unmilked.

The fine women tired of tea parties and lonely evenings and vowed to do something of it. Now, Amelia Kelly and Sarah Hoggs had been childhood friends. Their husbands' rivalry did not seem to matter much to them and their closeness as women. They freely discussed their options.

It was only at the concern of the other town ladies that the society matrons consulted the aging sage of Silver Loop City, a fine, rich woman and the daughter of the founder, with the unfortunate name of Widow Blastcock.

Now, let me tell you that I have every respect in the world for Widow Blastcock. She runs her own affairs and does them quite well. Though I have never desired the lucrative life style of the well-to-do, I do admire the trait of living it well in others.

Let me also tell you that the fine widow is of the strongest pioneer stock, and that fighting spirit still reflected in her advice. It was not a week later that the upstanding women of Silver Loop took over the saloons of the town.

When I say took over, I mean just that. The women entered the establishments in the morning when business was lax. They threw the working women out to the streets, barricaded themselves in, and allowed no other passage in or out. This went on all day. A few of the townsmen noticed when their lunch was not prepared as usual, and others could not partake in their usual afternoon respite.

Though the women of the assault allowed for weakness of the flesh, bringing a picnic lunch and other such necessities too delicate to explain, they had not anticipated the mental anguish involved in such a bold move.

But upon my reflections, perhaps it was all planned after all. Whatever the case, these fine women partook of evil spirits in their boredom and curiosity. To the relief of most barkeeps, the cost was cheap due to the low tolerance for whiskey in the fine ladies of the town.

The situation worsened, until nightfall, when Sheriff Cantwell threatened violence. It was a bluff the ladies decided to call, and those women who were still standing entered the streets with bawdy songs and guns blazing.

No one ever figured out just where they got the guns.

The rest of the tale is not complimentary to the ladies, and I am reminded of my dearest Mama and her own fits of the vapors. Needless to say, the situation was one of dire consequences, the women claiming their own example should be examined in the light of the traits of others.

The notion was lost on their menfolk, though I understood it well enough. The husbands and fathers of these women agreed to pay all damages and fines. It was requested that an apology be forthcoming, but in their zeal, the women vowed to repeat the hostilities until the men acted in proper accord.

But once was enough for Silver Loop City, and Mayor Kelly, taking this as the political opportunity it was, called the town council to a special meeting. Those gentlemen passed an ordinance, banning proper women from any and all drinking establishments.

As an added insult to Widow Blastcock, the council stipulated that women would not be allowed to partake of alcohol in any place or form, except in the case of religious ceremonies. Since the widow was renowned for her elderberry wine, this hit an extreme note of discord.

But it was only at the collective protest from the saloon girls, that the last part of the new law was repealed. And it was only realized later, that the ordinance was then reworded in such a manner that drinking was legal for women, but buying a drink for a woman was not.

This only added to the confusion.

I understood the ordinance well enough, but I am an educated man and take stock in reading the law, as was my father’s forte. However, for the common man, I do not believe the understanding was clear, and so business was conducted as usual in the saloons.

I did not bother to pursue the issue, the same cannot be said for the Widow Blastcock. Angered by the ill treatment and the lack of results, the Widow used her own fortune to further the situation.

I have mentioned before that something always comes up to lend me assistance in my life's goals. I must also mention now that the Widow is a fine woman of intelligence and vision. Conclude that the bargain was struck and both participants would fare well.

I must admit to a certain fondness for several of the saloon girls, Flossie, Billie Jo, and the beautiful Pris. But like my dearest Daddy, I have always acted as the perfect gentlemen. It was to my own discredit that I used foul language when my dear friend, Pris, told me of the new developments.

Marching down the street as if in everyday business, the fine ladies of the town wore finery as seen in any drinking establishment, and worse. Their actions matched as well with coquettish notions and painted faces.

What is any man to do? Some would stare, some would drag their wife or daughter home. Some took advantage of the poor feminine creatures so out of their element. The traveling preacher had his work cut out for him on the next visit, and a few of the scandals are still discussed to this day.

There is only rumor and legend as to how the ladies came upon the idea of the harlot's clothes. It is further speculated as to how they actually achieved their grand illusion. I would deny all charges, had the truth been suspected. Suffice it to say, the results were of a finer quality this time, and the Widow Blastcock was pleased.

Not to be outdone by his fine opponent, Draper Hoggs called on the council to propose a dress code for upstanding ladies of the town. Ankles were not to be shown, nor shoulders. Feathers and paint and perfume were not allowed, and heels were to be of serviceable height with nothing but opaque stocking allowed.

Note that how that last point was to be checked and enforced was never quite figured out.

Draper Hoggs had a fine mind for business, but his political savvy was no match for the fine Mayor Kelly. The legislation did not have the finer points nor proper wording that an experienced leader would include.

Since the women, any women, were not allowed bawdy clothing, the saloon girls were soon given the choice of paying fines or jail time. Most chose to leave town. Those who remained were not nearly so charming in their somber and modest attire.

It was soon pointed out by the matrons, Mrs. Kelly and Mrs. Hoggs, that liquor could not be purchased for the remaining girls, due to the town ordinance previously mentioned. It would seem that the Widow Blastcock had a quick mind where the word of the law is concerned.

Draper Hoggs was ruined politically, as was the fine Mayor Kelly. An unknown, a lawyer by trade, received the office of mayor, and I, as usual, voted for myself.

The saloons have been closing one by one, and now I sit in the Lucky Lady, hoping the worst does not fall here. But, I have no doubt that I will be attended, something always comes up.

My fine Pris takes good care of the inventory and the other saloon girls barkeep with a proper respect for the ladies of the town and the new owner of the Lucky Lady, myself. I never lift a hand to do business, though I am quite an accomplished host, given my background of Southern hospitality and gentility.

The proper ladies of the city have not rebelled again. It seems they have no quarrel with the subdued saloons, run with proper decorum. The ladies' emporium and tea parlor is doing superior business, and the millinery shop has expanded. The Widow Blastcock has purchased both with an unnamed partner, or so it has been rumored.

Occasionally, the gentlemen in town will come to the saloon for refreshment, toasting their past victory. Women are again held in their place, and men still run the world.

Across the street, the town women are having a tea, discussing their quiet evenings at home and watching as another wagon load of harlots heads for better opportunities. No grudge is held on either side, though Flossie and Billie Jo and my Pris now have a healthy regard for socially-accepted respectability.

As I said, I have never claimed to understand women, though I do admire them so. I just had to tell this story, though I will not be sending it back East. For though it is truly larger than life and a lesson could be learned from the tale, I am not sure that women would like their secret shared, nor men, take it very well. Amen.

* * * * *

THE END

Shadow Reads, Dark Little Stories

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Other works by Marilyn M Schulz

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