RLM Cooper is a summa cum laude graduate of the University of Alabama in Huntsville whose poems and short stories have been published in online magazines, literary reviews, and print anthologies both in the United States and abroad. She lives in the Pacific Northwest. For links to her work, please visit her blog: rlmcooper.com Lydia When she was twelve, Lydia said, rather wistfully, "I wish I could fly," as she paged through the ornithological catalog on the professor's tea table.
The professor turned his head sideways, closed one eye, and looked at her with the other as he stroked his neatly-trimmed beard and said, "You will." Most would have thought it terribly odd for a twelve-year-old girl, just budding into young womanhood, to be spending time alone in the cottage of a middle-aged (approaching elderly) gentleman. Even her mother had been concerned, if not downright apprehensive, until the afternoon she had trekked down the hill and surreptitiously peeked inside Professor Fitzpatrick's window where she found him reading to Lydia from some thick volume which, apparently, held her daughter in thrall. Lydia, who was primly sitting to attention in an overstuffed, wingback chair, followed every movement of the good professor as he gestured widely with his free hand and arm while holding the giant tome in the other, pacing and reading aloud simultaneously. At this, her mother had smiled and deemed Professor Fitzpatrick the most benignant of gentlemen whose company could only prove beneficial to her daughter. And, in this, she was correct for Lydia sorely needed a friend. Born with a left leg shorter than the right, Lydia limped heavily without her specially built-up shoe. Even with the shoe, which was of necessity heavier than that of the right, there remained a noticeable wobble in her gait. This difference made her the target of those children in her school who were prone to bullying and so she was most often to be found in her own company. The bullying took many forms and though she tried her best to ignore it, there were times this tactic was simply not possible. Such was the case in her fourteenth year. Late one spring afternoon as she was walking home from school, four boys began following her, taunting and laughing. They began pushing her to and fro until, at last, she fell to the stones along the path whereupon one of the group forcefully removed her left shoe and the four of them beat a hasty and noisy retreat, waving the shoe in the air as they carried it away with them. Lydia was distraught. Her dress was dirty now and had suffered small tears from the thorns on the wild rose that grew untended, its leggy stems reaching out into the path itself. What could she tell her mother who had paid dearly for the shoe? She sat still on the path for a few minutes until she had dried her tears, then gathered her spilled books and began walking home, her left foot bruising on the stones beneath the thin stocking and her limp so pronounced without her shoe that she appeared as unsteady as a wind-tossed skiff. She had mostly ceased bothering to ponder the question of why people bullied others, for she had long ago decided there was no definitive answer. Instead, she simply withdrew into herself and became animated only in the presence of her mother and her friend, the professor. On this day, as she limped home and approached her door, she found there waiting on the stoop, the stolen left shoe. Inside, was a tiny note written on what appeared to be the torn corner of a notebook page. It said, simply, I'm sorry. I am sorry. Not we are sorry. Out of four boys half again her size there was only one, it appeared, with a conscience that had compelled him to return the shoe along with an apology. The note was not signed. Perhaps he was too embarrassed or ashamed. She placed the note within the pages of her literature textbook and put on her shoe. She told her mother only that her dress was torn because she had fallen along the path. There was no need making her mother worry or feel sad for a daughter who had long ago gotten used to such treatment. Her mother had fussed over the dress and finally allowed as how it was not beyond repair and then sent Lydia off to the professor's cottage with a plate of biscuits as she had done twice each week since Lydia was twelve and since she had seen for herself the benefits of his influence on her daughter. Approaching the professor's cottage, Lydia never ceased to be captivated. The path itself would not have been long had it been straight, but it wandered to both right and left between stone walls enclosing brilliant green pastures of grazing sheep and cattle on either side beyond the shady groves of trees. At its end, it came to an abrupt stop at the old unpaved mill road that ran alongside a quiet, dark stream. To the right, not twenty yards distant, a small footbridge arched from the mossy side of the mill road to the professor's cottage nestled on what appeared to be its own tiny island within the stream. It was not really an island, however, since it was connected to the far bank. But it jutted out into the stream such that from the footbridge side it appeared very much like a small island. Lydia always paused on the bridge to breathe in the scene. The professor's small boat was tied at the foot of the steps leading into the water near the left side of the bridge, and farther off to the left in the side garden, where the land ended and the stream pressed lazily against its buttress, grew a profusion of hydrangeas in all shades of pink and lavender and blue, a backdrop to an abundance of tiny purple things Lydia could not name. Beside the cottage door, roses and ivy climbed all the way to the thatched roof, brazenly intruding upon the green shutters and windows thrown open to the fresh air. At this scene, her earlier humiliation all but forgotten, an indescribable happiness bubbled up within her and she had to force herself to continue across to deliver the professor's biscuits. "I'm sorry I'm late," she told the professor as she finally arrived. "I would save a lot more time, I know, if I didn't dawdle along the way." The professor laughed and shook his head. "There is nothing you can do to save time." Lydia's brow furrowed. "My mother often talks about saving time." "I know. Many people do. But time cannot be saved. You can't just put it in your pocket and pull it out later when you need a few extra minutes. No. It just marches on by, relentlessly, without stopping--each second arriving quickly and just as quickly passing on by. Tick, tick, tick. The only thing we can do is wisely use the time we have for it cannot be saved and it will not come again." Lydia decided she would need to consider this more fully but, for now, she changed the subject. "Professor Fitzpatrick? Why do people bully other people?" The professor sat her down in her favorite wingback chair and she watched silently as he poured steaming tea into a china cup emblazoned with daisies and buttercups. He looked solemn as he handed her the cup. "Because," he said at last, "they are afraid. They recognize their own shortcomings and they know deep down, at least thus far, they are failures. But they are incapable of admitting this and so to make themselves feel better, they feel they must make someone else feel worse." He looked at her seriously then and asked, "Has someone bullied you?" Lydia described what had happened on her way home from school while the professor listened without interrupting. As she neared the end of her recount, she sat up and reached for her literature text which had supported the plate of biscuits all the way down the hill. "But there was this." She opened the textbook, withdrew the torn triangle of notebook paper, and handed it to the professor. "Ah!" His brows went up and he nodded. "At least one among them has a conscience. Do you know who it was?" "No, I don't." Lydia was embarrassed that she was completely unaware of who these boys were. Such was her protective withdrawal over the years from the company of others in preference to that of her own where she felt safe. "Well, no matter. But I will wager this boy will soon be forging his own path, leaving the other three behind." "If only I weren't impeded by being crippled, perhaps--" Lydia was cut off mid-sentence by the professor. "Non, non, non!" The professor had taken a stance with hands on hips. "Your brain is not crippled, is it?" "No." "Well, then. You have no impediment." Lydia smiled at this man for whom she had such affection and said, "I just wish I were normal." At this, Professor Fitzpatrick broke into laughter. "My dearest girl! No one is normal." He handed back the scrap of paper and said, "All right then! Today we will discuss the writing of Marcus Aurelius." And so Lydia passed her days content in the company of Professor Fitzpatrick learning of more than ever she was aware. There were serious talks. Serious discussions. Wonderful readings by the professor as he flung his arms wide and mimicked various characters from Dickens and Shakespeare. Upon the reading of Shakespeare's Comedy of Errors Lydia could not contain herself and erupted into peals of laughter, requiring a handkerchief to dry her tears. And when once she mentioned a thing was simply inconceivable, the professor had laughed heartily and said, "I often wonder why that word exists at all. After all, if something is inconceivable you wouldn't have been able to think of it in the first place, would you? But since you did, then it cannot be inconceivable, can it?" And Lydia would grow quiet, thinking, then burst into laughter as though the professor had made the most wonderful of all jokes. On turning sixteen, Lydia's life grew more complicated and her visits to the professor were, of necessity, curtailed. Her mother had become ill and required the greater part of her time when she was not in school and so she visited the professor less often--sometimes only once a fortnight. In addition, and on the happier side of circumstance, she had been approached by a young man named Philip Martin whose mission in life, it seemed, was to walk Lydia home from school each afternoon. In this, she was more than a little circumspect and yet secretly pleased. She convinced herself that she worried overmuch. After all, it was merely a walk from school to home and Mr. Martin had, on all occasions, been a perfect gentleman. When, after many months, her mother died, Lydia was distraught. Doubly so, for scarcely had the last shovelful of earth settled over the casket than she was taken in hand by her aunt Prudence, a stern and rigid woman who, it seemed, lacked the ability to part her lips in a smile. Like some revenant from a horror film--a black and white photograph come reluctantly to life--the fictional Mrs. Danvers had nothing on this intimidating woman. Aunt Pru had taken it upon herself to move kit and caboodle into her late brother's--now Lydia's--home where she set herself up, to all appearances, as queen bee. The woman, never once admitting openly her own good fortune at now having both living and residence in the comfortable home of her long dead brother, pretended great concern for Lydia as damaged goods who, due to her "infirmity," would never find a husband. Most would have rebelled openly at this usurpation of both property and place, but Lydia did not. And so even as her aunt presented herself to the world as Lydia's savior (a ruse successful to all but the girl herself), Lydia sensed something deep within her aunt that she was particularly well-qualified to recognize. It is possible she would not have been able to name this intuition even had she been asked, and yet her confidence in her feeling was absolute and she accepted the woman without protest. And so the days passed peacefully and without incident. Aunt Pru, ever stiff and unsmiling, and Lydia, who could find beauty in almost everything, cohabited peacefully enough that neither had reason for complaint. Lydia, in place of her mother, now baked the biscuits and carried them down the hill to the professor where she, quite happily, continued to be tutored in every possible subject by her smartest and best of all friends. And Mr. Martin, growing fonder by the day, continued walking Lydia home from school, until it was dismissed for the term, and then managed, somehow, to find excuses to pop up at unexpected times, both surprising and secretly pleasing Lydia. Thus, Summer passed lazily into autumn, and autumn reluctantly gave over to the winds and chills announcing the Christmas holiday would be upon them very shortly. This holiday would offer, Lydia decided, an opportunity to put a chink in the facade Aunt Pru wore like a protective suit of armor. Seizing on the opportunity and ignoring her slightly exaggerated limp brought on by the cold weather, Lydia went shopping and her small, gaily-wrapped package was placed beneath the tree alongside a slightly larger one put there for her by Aunt Pru. On Christmas morning Lydia and Aunt Pru sat facing each other on either side of the warmly cracking fireplace, their respective gifts in their laps. "Shall we?" Lydia said with a cheerful lilt to her voice. "Hmmm." "You go first, Aunt!" Aunt Pru nodded and pulled aside the red, glittery ribbon from the small box containing Lydia's gift. Lydia watched closely as she opened the lid and stared woodenly into the box. Only her thumb moved across the surface of the glistening fabric folded there. "Oh, Aunt!" Lydia said, laughing. "Take it out of the box!" Her good-natured entreaty had done something. She was sure of it, for Aunt Pru gathered the fabric in her hand and pulled it from the box. It spilled out onto her lap in a soft, glistening waterfall of sunset pinks and golds and purples. "It's a silk scarf!" Lydia exclaimed as though it were the very first of its kind ever. "Isn't it lovely? And it will be so beautiful on you with your wonderful blue eyes!" Her aunt, ever stiff, hid nearly perfectly the tiny hint of a smile that tugged at her lips. But Lydia was not deceived. "Shall I open mine, now?" she asked. "Hmmmm." Lydia opened her gift to find a sweater. It was as gray as her aunt Prudence. But Lydia was determined. "Oh, Aunt! How lovely! And it's so soft, too! Thank you so very much!" She held it up to her face and rubbed the softness of it on her cheek. "I think, though, with your permission, of course, that it would be just fabulous with the iridescent mother-of-pearl buttons that daddy gave to mother on their very first anniversary. What do you think?" "Hmmmm." Her aunt was reticent as ever, but she nodded her assent and Lydia jumped from her chair and embraced her aunt for the very first time since she had come to live in her house. Her aunt received the embrace stiffly, but she did not protest. The chink in the armor was becoming a hairline crack. The week after Christmas, when Lydia had removed the ordinary gray buttons from the sweater and replaced them with the mother-of-pearl, she came downstairs to show the result to her aunt. Finding her in her room--the one that used to be her mother's--Lydia remained outside the door for a moment since she had yet to be discovered, and observed her aunt lovingly fingering the colorful scarf she had given her. Lydia felt an overwhelming emotion rise up within her but she remained silent. Then, she cleared her throat to announce her presence. Her aunt quickly closed the drawer containing the scarf. "Look, Aunt! Isn't it lovely now?" Lydia entered the room and laid the sweater on her aunt's lap. "The buttons almost glow, don't they? I think Mother loved them almost as much as she loved your brother. I'm so glad they can be worn again on this wonderful sweater." And there it was. Her aunt smiled the tiniest of smiles. But it was there. Lydia wondered how long it had been since she had last smiled. Or had anything to smile about. Was she bullied in her youth, too? Was she never shown anything approaching love? Was she unwanted and afraid her whole life? Was that what had turned her into a gray, stiff photograph? Lydia did not know. And she would never ask. It was enough, for now, that she had almost smiled. Over the next several weeks, Lydia noticed small changes in her aunt's demeanor. One very nice thing was baking the biscuits for the professor rather than leaving it for Lydia when she had come home from school. And she must have gone shopping one day while Lydia was in school because she was now wearing dresses of blues and purples and greens--still dark shades, but such a refreshing change from her usual black and gray. Once she wore a dress of deep red. The shade was so deep it appeared almost like her old black but Lydia was not fooled, and she was happy. In April, Lydia came downstairs to find her aunt again in her room. This time her hair, usually in a severely drawn bun, was down around her shoulders. "Aunt!" Lydia said. "Your hair! It's so shiny! Please, may I brush it for you?" And the armor cracked open. Aunt Pru did everything she could to suppress her tears but was unsuccessful. Her eyes misted up and and the mist became drops and the drops became streams that ran silently down her cheeks. Lydia embraced her and stroked her hair as though petting a kitten and embraced her again. There was no need for words now. She took the brush and began to brush her aunt's hair. And this was to become a ritual. In May, on her seventeenth birthday, Professor Fitzpatrick invited her and her aunt and her "gentleman friend," Mr. Martin, to celebrate with him at his cottage. Aunt Pru was determined that she could not go. He doesn't really want me there, she said. And I have nothing to wear, anyway, she said. But Lydia refused to listen. "Of course he wants you there! Why else would he invite you? And I have the perfect dress for you. You and mother are about the same size even though you are a little taller than she was. I think it will fit. I'll fetch it from the attic!" Lydia dug through the trunk in the attic where she had stored her mother's things until she found the lovely spring green dress she had so loved on her mother and Aunt Pru wore it, along with the scarf Lydia had given her for Christmas, with Lydia and Mr. Martin hand-in-hand leading the way to the professor's cottage. The professor greeted them warmly and bid everyone sit comfortably while he fetched tea and biscuits. Lydia kept a close eye on her aunt and after deciding she would be all right here in the company of Professor Fitzpatrick, she and Philip excused themselves for a walk in the garden. Spring was going to be generous this year as buds were already opening to display the brilliant, saturated colors of the young roses and other flowers. Later, of course, when the blooms had been on full display, the colors would fade. But now they hinted of the riot of color that was to come. Mr. Martin led Lydia to the garden bench and sat her down. "I have a confession to make," he said. "Oh? A confession?" "Yes." He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He opened it carefully and handed it to her. The paper itself was blank, but the top right corner was missing. "Oh, Philip!" Lydia laughed. "I knew it was you." "You did?" "Yes, of course! Who else could it have been?" "And you are not angry with me?" "No. You were the only one with a heart." "Well, I felt terrible for my part that day. And then, later, I felt even sadder for you when your aunt came to live in your house. Everyone did." "That's only because they don't know her. You have to know someone before you can judge them. Assumptions can kill friendships before they even have a chance to start." Philip looked long at Lydia and allowed as how she was wise beyond her years and, at that, she laughed again and suggested they check on her aunt and the professor to see how they were getting on. As they approached the side of the cottage, laughter could be heard coming through the open windows and Lydia could see the professor and her aunt with their heads together over some kind of document on the tea table. The professor lifted the paper from the table and stood beside Aunt Pru, pulling her in close with his arm about her shoulders for a better view. The two of them stood there looking the document over conspiratorially, and smiling. First at the document and then at each other. Then at the document again. Lydia could scarcely believe her eyes at this transformation in her aunt. She called out, "Hello! What are the two of you so excited about?" The sound of Lydia's voice caused the two of them to jump, Aunt Pru to seat herself in Lydia's favorite wingback chair, and the professor to quickly fold the document and shove it into a creamy envelope. This little mystery was simply too much for Lydia and she and Philip went quickly to the front door and made their way into the professor's study without delay. Hands on hips, she tapped her foot and looked at the two of them. "All right. What is going on?" Aunt Pru looked at the professor. The professor looked at Aunt Pru. The two of them looked as though they had stolen the last biscuit from the jar. Finally, the professor said to Pru, "Shall we tell her?" "Well, it is her birthday and she graduates next month. I think... yes! You should tell her." "Tell me what?" Lydia was becoming very suspicious of this whole charade. "Very well, then." The professor cleared his throat and fingered the creamy envelope. He handed it to Lydia. "Happy birthday," he said. Her aunt joined in with well-wishes of her own as Lydia hesitantly took the envelope and slowly removed the document. She read it through. She looked at the professor. She read it through again. Then she threw her arms around him. "Oh, Professor Fitzpatrick! What a wonderful birthday present!" "I've been in touch with the university for quite some time on your behalf," he said. "And, after they checked with your school, it seems they have agreed with me one hundred percent. You have been given a full scholarship to further your education." "But Oxford! I cannot even imagine!" "You are well-prepared and completely deserving, Lydia. She took the letter and walked over to the window to read it again. Finally she turned and looked up. "Professor Fitzpatrick?" "Yes, my dear?" "Do you remember when I was twelve I told you I wished I could fly?" He laughed. "Of course I do." "Remember you said I would? Well, I think I am!" She spread her arms and twirled around without limping a single time. "I think I'm really flying!" * * *
0 Comments
César Irizarry is currently attending Full Sail University, working towards his BFA in Creative Writing for Entertainment. When he’s not writing, you can find him reading or singing. He prefers to write about fiction and fantasy but likes to explore other genres as well. CREATURE OF THE NIGHTAs soon as Josh’s flashlight hit its yellow eyes, the wolf-like creature arched its back and showed its bloody teeth. It only took a growl from that creature to make his body shiver, and a bark to freeze him on the spot.
“Do not move a muscle,” his father said. The old man stood three feet behind him with a riffle in hand. He began to raise the gun when the creature’s growl intensified. “When I tell you to dock, dock,” Mr. Damsels said. Josh was sweating cold. Shivers ran up and down his spine whenever the creature barked. When it did, it spilled blood and saliva from its mouth, making Josh’s stomach turn. “Dock,” he heard his father say. When Josh docked, Mr. Damsels fired his riffle. One of the bullets missed, but the other managed to hit it. Josh covered his ears when the creature whined, but watched it vanish into the darkness of the barn. Mr. Damsels wasted no time to reload and follow that thing into the barn. Josh, despite having nothing but a flashlight and a baseball bat, followed his father. The commotion of the horses inside of the barn was a sign that the animal, or creature, was still there. “Turn on the light,” his father said, and Josh obeyed. The barn lit up and they finally took a good look at the creature in the middle of the barn. It had pointy ears and a long snout. It was half the size of a horse with black fur and long front legs. It took a defensive stance, ready to attack any moment. Mr. Damsels wasted no time, he aimed and shot at the creature a couple of times. The animal moved fast, nearly dodging every shot fired. When Mr. Damsels’ riffle emptied, the creature ran further into the barn. A trail of blood led the way into its whereabouts. With only three bullets left in his pocket, Mr. Damsels ventured into the darkest part of the barn to end the life of that vile creature. From the barn’s doors, Josh watched his father vanish into the shadows and waited. There was nothing but silence and a stare off between the darkness at the other side of the barn and Josh. He readjusted his grip of the bat several times to fight off the urge to bite his nails. Instead, he chewed his lower lip as the wait grew longer. His shirt was damped in sweat, his body shivered in uncertainty, and the knot inside his throat make it hard to swallow. “Dad,” Josh said. A shot was fired. The cries and growls echoed through the barn. Another shot, another whine, and before Josh could say something else, the thing ran out of the shadows toward the doors. Josh tightened his grip on the bat, and when it came near enough, he took a swing and connected it to the side of the creature. The hit cracked the baseball bat, but it didn’t stop the creature from escaping the place. “Where did it go?” Mr. Damsels asked. He was lumping but determined. Josh pointed the direction and followed his father outside. They spotted it heading to the woods. “You are not going to get away,” Mr. Damsels said. With one bullet left in the chamber, the old man took a deep breath and held it in as he aimed. Once the riffle was steady, he took the shot. The creature fell to the ground, howling one last time. Josh released the air he didn’t know he had held. The blood circulated through his knuckles as he let the baseball bat hit the ground. It was finally over. “Go inside and call your mother, Josh. And tell her that we got another one.” Alexander Picard, 25, loves science-fiction and playing tabletop games. Also, he is a former Senior Airman in the United States Air Force. Fear of the In Love Life Megan sat there across the table… the battlefield from Sarah. Her fear of this woman was both irrational yet totally sensible in her mind. Her affection for Sarah and wanting for affection from her was clear as day yet there was fear. The old nemesis of heartbreak had infiltrated the recesses of her mind, guiding her towards an inevitable result she hated yet felt comfort with. As her heart raced and her mind went to the routine negatives of taking the next step with Sarah finding anything to deny the obvious.
“Meg, why are we doing this, we both know our feelings.” “I’m not ready for this,” said Megan, knowing that this particular duel could be the last. “I don’t understand we love each other and yet your past keeps you from me when we’re right here for the taking.” “Too many times, Sarah, too many times others ran me into the dirt emotionally, I don’t want this.” “Your eyes and being here says otherwise.” Seemed this would be the last duel. Over the past few months Sarah had pressed hard to get Megan to move forward with her. Megan had admired her efforts to be fair. As if marching to war drums she was always pushing her to get out of her shell after so many failures. Although it was for selfish reasons, Sarah did love her. Her walls she had put up from the mists of ruined relationships where now barring Sarah from her goal. Their battle at the kitchen table waged on thru the night. One side putting up defenses and the other tearing them down. Sarah chipping away at Megan’s resolve to remain single had slowly gotten more effective. Seemed like every time they interacted Sarah left her with less and less reason to turn her away. Megan realized this and decided to end it and snuff out any possibility of “them” and preserving her heart. “Sarah, I’m sorry but I’m done.” “If you won’t commit then I’m walking away and were done.” “I just want this, isn’t this good enough?” Sarah seemingly accepting this, teary eyed, walked towards the door. Upon seeing this Megan thought she’d felt relieved but with each step her chest tightened. Seemed the most effective weapon was simply leaving. Her heart racing Megan shouted out before her mind could stop it from happening. “Wait stay!” As Sarah turned around looking shocked but happy Megan’s heart felt… safe. She only then felt, with the real idea of Sarah leaving, the pain of missing this opportunity. Her love for this woman was both irrational yet totally sensible in her mind. A talk in a forest It’s an odd feeling waking, I remember going to bed feeling very cold only to wake up because of a sharp prick. To my side a bed of white roses, my arms and legs slightly red because of the thorns; yet I no longer feel cold. Such an odd feeling, the feeling of beat in my chest yet I feel warm. A forest lies in front of me with a peculiar sent. As I march forward the sent gets stronger, a breeze picked up yet it was warm as oppose to refreshing and odd bittersweet taste fills my mouth. My march continues until before me was a figure siting on a chair and next to it an empty chair. I slowly walked closer the mysterious figure becoming clearer; a man with a slender figure wearing an attire reminiscent of and 19th century British dandy, white hair and yellow eyes. As I drew close the sent became stronger, the sent was that of phosphorous. The man pointed to the chair and said “have a seat”, the voice echoed around me and a sharp chill went down my spine; I was beside myself “how could I be afraid” I said to myself. “Come now no need to drag things out” he said a soft spoken voice yet it carried a commanding presence. I sit on the chair, the mysterious figure smiles and says “well what is it you want?” confused I reply “want? Um with regards to what?” the mysterious figure extends an open hand and says “everybody wants something from me, and so for a trade I grant requests that are within reason. So what do you want?” My hand starts to shakes and cold sweet runs down my forehead I reply “I have nothing to ask of, if anything would it be too much to ask where I am? and who are you?” the mysterious figure gives a sharp look and says “one of the odd ones or one of the dense ones, most realize the situation rather quickly and are quick to make a big request” the figure motions his hand to his coat and pulls out a document “thou judging from what I have here seems this line of thinking is to be expected. Come now dear boy any request something to aid you on your next venture?” A sharp chill filled my body, I knew where I was and who this figure was “just take me away, I know what comes if I ask for anything” I said, a thunderous clap comes from the figure “So refreshing to see one that’s smart” I was left confused and before I could comprehend the situation the figure flicks his figure at my forehead and says “Keep that mindset it helps with avoiding pitfalls”. I wake up once more though in room I don’t recognize, but with a warm feeling in my heart.
Elizabeth Kaye Daugherty is a 25 year old lover of fiction and cats. She is a Florida native living in South Dakota and studying Creative Writing for Entertainment online through Full Sail University. Her favorite genre is fantasy, and her favorite author is Marie Lu. FLUFFYThe scent of coffee always made Heather Lovedarling feel alive. It was another morning opening the bakery and coffee bar, below their apartment on the corner of 3rd and Main, but the morning was mostly made beautiful by her wonderful wife, Adelaide Lovedarling. Coffee made Heather feel alive, but Adelaide was what made her enjoy living.
One of Adelaide’s eyelids was stuck shut from sleep, but that didn’t matter. “Are you ready for another rush of hungry customers, babe?” Heather asked, then gave her dark-haired wife an exaggerated wink. Adelaide rubbed at the back of her eye with the inside of her sleeve. “That depends,” she said groggily. “Has Farmer Dan dropped off the egg order for this morning?” “I’m not sure,” Heather admitted, wringing out a soapy white rag to use. “You’re so mean, to make him use his own eggs in his and Eugene’s wedding cake!” Adelaide dusted a tabletop with flour and a smirk. “It’s symbiosis. He gives me the eggs, and I only charge him for the sugar.” Heather chuckled, then rounded her coffee bar into her wife’s bakery. She planted a kiss on her temple, and smiled. “You remember our wedding cake? You didn’t sleep for a week making sure everything was perfect.” Adelaide hefted a lump of dough onto the table and looked at Heather from under her brow. “And you sent your dress back three times.” “I stress-eat!” Heather meekly defended, then playfully tapped the back of her hand against Adelaide’s arm. Adelaide laughed. “Here, take it out on the dough.” Heather punched the tacky lump, and Adelaide laughed some more. “Alright,” Adelaide began rolling the dough over. “I really gotta make this into cupcakes. Can you check on those eggs, please?” Before Heather could answer, the chime of the brass bell outside their bakery-and-coffee-café filled the women’s ears. “That’s probably them, now,” Heather hurried towards the door. On the patio, next to their flowering planter and wavering rainbow flag, Heather found the order of eggs… and another box hastily folded shut and bent at the corners. And it scooted back and forth. Heather paused, her usually nimble hands frozen at her sides as she watched the cardboard box do its little dance. “Adie…” Heather called over her shoulder, kneeling down to scoop up the parcels. The dancing one was bottom heavy, and Heather nearly dropped the eggs trying to correct her grip. “Did he – What in the world?” Adelaide brushed her hands anxiously against her apron, sending flour shooting away in puffs. “I don’t know, it’s…” Heather set the box down amongst their café seats, and opened the flaps. The two gasped aloud, hands flying to their faces. “Kittens!” Inside the box, a baker’s dozen fluffy, squeaky, adorable bodies rolled and flopped and wiggled against each other. Heather reached in and scooped up an orange kitten, tucking it close. She looked up at her wife, “Do you think?... Farmer Dan?” Adelaide shook her head, reaching in and wriggling her fingers against any face that would nuzzle them. “Was there anything else with them? A note? A person?” Heather shook her head. “Not that I see…” “Well, we can’t keep all of them…” Adelaide forced the words out, not liking the news any more than her particularly emotional wife did. Heather sighed. “I know… But we have to make sure they get loving homes. They’re here for that reason!” Adelaide resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She loved her wife’s whimsy, even when it was less than practical. She knew that kittens would move quickly through the local shelter, but as always with Heather, she was moved to try something different. “I have an idea.” That day, every cupcake (appropriately decorated with whiskers and paw prints) came with a free kitten to a loving home. An all-white one went to a little girl whose father was very sick. A chubby gray one with blue eyes went to the young man who lived as somewhat of a shut-in. Two calicos were taken in by Mr. Damien who had lost his wife two years ago and needed the companionship. A black and white kitten was given to a new couple that had moved to their small town and was looking to start a family. Eventually, all the kittens went to new homes by the time their little shop closed its doors. All, of course, except the orange one that Heather picked up at morning. Angel Edwards is a member of SOCAN, BMI and VMA. She owns a small music publishing company. A dozen of her songs are published by Saddlestone Publishing. She currently performs as a solo acoustic electric singer songwriter guitarist. Her poems are included in two international poetry anthologies “Mind Paintings” and “Between Earth and Sky” from Silver Bow Publishing. Her poem “Morning Flight” was published in The Long Islander Newspaper in “Walt’s Corner” April 23 2015. Three poems and her short story “The Tale of Mira and Elroy” were published by The Screech Owl http://www.reverbnation.com/AngelEdwards https://itunes.apple.com/ca/artist/angel-edwards/id282564414. Angel is preparing her first poetry,short stories book. At The Edge of ParadiseThe place was flat. There were no mountains visible in any direction. There were no hillsides and no valleys. The blue cloud spattered sky started at the green grassy earth and expanded to a bluer
endless universe. Maddie saw no ending to the sky. There were many plants and all of them were enclosed in various gold and silver containers. Two large seagulls were engaged in conversation with a splendid blue point Siamese cat. A trio of cupids danced in a circle above the girl’s head and peppered her with their bright orange arrows. They caused no pain but annoyed her somehow and Maddie scurried from their mischief and clambered up a leafy oak tree. (The tree occupied an enormous silver bucket) “Who invited you?” growled the old tree (who was in fact the King Tree- the only tree) Madeline was surprised to hear the tree speak but she answered just the same. ”I am hiding from the cupids.” The tree laughed and shook so violently that the girl was knocked from its branches. One small orange arrow narrowly missed her right eye. “Hey!” she yelled The cupids giggled making a lovely sound like children singing in harmony. They kept bombarding her with their arrows. “Will you stop bothering the girl!” said a voice which seemed to come from far above. A person with skin the exact color of the sky and with hair matching the white clouds was difficult to see at first-blue on blue and white on white. He was round faced with curly white hair, short and small in stature .and he stood upon a fluffy cloud. The white and blue little man began to sing a funny song. “I am Clowe the cloud cleaner Here to entertain you I keep the white clouds white I keep the blue sky blue” Maddie did not know how to reply but she found herself liking the little blue and white man very much. Clowe disappeared. leaving her feeling lonely but just then a white and gold collie bounded to her and licked her face, making her giggle. Maddie noticed that the tree had a big red apple in its leafy branches .She was certain that it had not been there before. Maddie was hungry suddenly and plucked the fine apple from the oak tree. Just as she was about to take a bite a voice cried out “Don’t eat it!” She dropped the apple. “Ha ha !”sad the raspy speaker at her feet. The girl looked down and a black and purple snake winked at her. “Haven’t you heard about apples and Paradise? Don’t eat apples here” The snake was a sight to behold. He was wearing a red fedora and a shiny white scarf around his “neck” An unlit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth “Paradise?” repeated Maddie. “This is Heaven?” “Well no it is the Edge of Paradise actually, quite a different place altogether. Why I know more about the Edge of Paradise than any…” Sig the snake was interrupted when Clowe appeared above them “Don’t pay attention to Sig my dear.” advised the cloud cleaner. He is an old old serpent and a born trouble maker.” Right on cue, Sig hissed rather nastily and said “You aren’t really hungry you know kiddo. You do know that you are Dead?” Somehow Maddie knew this and was not frightened. She knew all along that she was in a different world. “The after life” she thought to herself. “What was the before life?” The child had no memory of dying. She could not remember anything before or beyond the endless sky of the Edge of Paradise. Madeleine felt happy and safe when she looked at the blue sky. The snake stuck his tongue out and all at once the three little cupids made their entry. Harte grabbed the snake by the tail and tossed poor Sig into the air. Val and Blem quickly joined in the game, tossing the snake back and forth. The poor creature hissed and sputtered and Madeleine felt sorry for him and begged the cupids to stop throwing him. Reluctantly, Harte dropped Sig to the ground taunting further with “That’s one you owe her Sig and by the way get out of here would you!” “You are out of bounds,” added Val somewhat arrogantly .The cupids pelted him with their arrows. “I’m going I’m going” cried Sig almost in tears .Miraculously the unlit cigarette still dangled from his mouth and the hat and scarf remained in place throughout his ordeal with the cupids. . He knew that he was not technically allowed anywhere near Paradise or even its edges. However Sig loved the warmth of the Edge of Paradise. and breathed its honeyed air deep into himself. He discovered that he could utilize this warm energy to elevate him from his home in Hell to the Edge of Paradise. The guardians of Hell were negligent, ancient and lazy and they also took extremely long naps. In Hell Sig could smoke as many cigarettes as he wanted but he could find no fire at all at the Edge of Paradise so his cigarette remained in his mouth unlit .Still the snake always brought one up whenever he visited. The visits usually didn’t last long. The cupids were always on the look out for his undesired appearance and would expel him from the Edge of Paradise. Sig was not a bad soul really as far as snakes went. Paradise simply allowed no snakes. Zero tolerance had been the inflexible rule, dating back centuries since the first snake’s interference with Adam and Eve .Paradise has an eternal memory apparently and transgressions are never pardoned. ( So much for the Golden Rule.) “Would you care for a swim in the pool with us Dearie? ”Maddie saw two seagulls. They were bigger than she was and their eyes held intelligence such as never seen in a bird on earth. One bird wore a frilly pink tutu and a bright red ribbon and the other had a green cowboy hat upon his head. Madeleine liked the look of them immensely. “Mrs. Glimmer, Jill Glimmer” said the bird in the tutu, holding out a wing for the girl to shake. “Mr.Glimmer Gill Glimmer,” said the larger seagull, awkwardly patting Maddie’s head. “You are seagulls aren’t you?’ asked Maddie. “Sometimes” answered Mr. Glimmer with a chuckle .”And if you agree to go swimming with us we will be…” “Follow us,.follow us” cried Mrs. Glimmer and the two white birds flew off at such a pace that Maddie could not possibly keep up. Never mind, she now plainly saw the pale blue pool a few hundred yards away. Watch it! Watch it!”? cried Clowe appearing out of nowhere as usual.. Clowe carried Madeleine to his cloud and showed her the pool below and she saw a pair of white swans enjoying the water. Maddie also saw a huge precipice ,like a wall, ending in space. There was a three foot gap between the pool and the abyss. “I guess I don’t feel much like swimming,” said Maddie. “Nonsense!” protested the cloud cleaning man and he puffed out his blue cheeks and gently blew the girl into the air. Maddie landed in the pool with a loud splash. Mr. and Mrs. Glimmer laughed (and this is a sound like no other). Maddie accidentally swallowed some of the pool water and it tasted of butterscotch, bananas and lemons. She swam leisurely and then floated happily on her back. The sky above was a deep royal blue and several stars were visible although there was bright sunlight. After some time Maddie wanted to get out of the pool. To her surprise the blue Siamese cat paddled up to her. “Are you ready to come out of the pool?” asked the cat. “They sent me ,mew to fetch you., mew. My name is Meeyow and you are Madeleine but prefer to be called Maddie” “So you are Meeyow the cat” said Maddie “Now Maddie the girl ,if you will just swim along behind me.” Maddie had to swim furiously to keep the cat in sight. Over white rapids and a churning waterfall they tumbled. Maddie could breathe the water and it was an exhilarating ride. Clowe the cloud cleaner called down to her from his cloud. ”Did you enjoy your swim?” “Yes,” replied Madeleine “It was wonderful!” Meeyow began to solemnly wash herself . From out of nowhere a grey heavy cloud drifted into the sky and without warning released its burden and poured cold water all over Maddie .This dampened her spirits. Clowe stared at the girl for a moment and then he asked “Have you ever traveled upon a cloud?” “No,” admitted Maddie “Or would you prefer to ride upon a large seagull? Did I say ‘seagull’? That is not what I meant-Look here is a fine Pegasus .Do you wish to go for a ride on a magic Pegasus?” “Yes! Yes!” exclaimed Madeleine. She was thrilled beyond words as she gracefully mounted the flying horse ,which hovered in the air and politely allowed Maddie to climb up onto his broad back. “Its me Gill Glimmer”, said the Pegasus “We shall see all of the Edge of Paradise. Look up above and you may even glimpse the Pearly Gates themselves.” “You Are Gill aren’t you?” asked Maddie, a bit doubtfully “The last time we were swimming together you were a swan weren’t you? And you were a seagull before that?” “We are ahem shape changers, an ancient family gift.” said Gill with justifiable pride. A large white snowbird flew up beside them. “Its Jill Glimmer Maddie. I’m very pleased to see you up so high in our sky. Well see you later on. Enjoy your ride.” Jill Glimmer flew off and Maddie watched and watched until the bird became a tiny white speck in the sky.. The Pegasus flew up and up and Maddie was so happy. Her heart was light and she laughed and hugged Gill’s silky pale blue mane. “How high can you fly Gill Glimmer?’ asked the girl speaking into his right ear. “Can we fly all the way to Paradise?” “Fly to Heaven?” snorted Gill.” Absolutely NOT. It is and has always been invitation only.” “Have you ever been to Paradise?” asked Maddie. “not yet my sweet,” answered Gill Glimmer. “I fear my heart and my wings are not strong enough. It is a long way up, you know. I know I shall fly there one day I just know it! But the journey is far and once inside Cloud Nine well few beings ever leave Cloud Nine.. It is such a beautiful and blissful place right at Heaven’s Door, so to speak..” “And what number cloud is Clowe always standing on” questioned the inquisitive girl. “Cloud two and a Half of course,” said the Pegasus. Gill rose up higher and higher into the sapphire sky. “I will now attempt to reach Cloud Four. .Hang on tightly girl.” “Yes!” screamed Madeleine as the almighty wind stole her voice from her throat and whipped them both around in circles. “Sorry my dear,” said Gill. “Better prepare for a crash landing.” Down,down,down they tumbled. Madeleine tried desperately to hang onto Gill’s mane but inevitably she was tossed from his back into the endless depths of the sky. Maddie awoke on the lush green lawn of the Edge of Paradise .The little collie was whimpering and licking her hand. Maddie buried her face in the animal’s soft fur and sobbed. Nothing about the after life made any sense to her! She seemed to sleep for a while or at least she felt herself slip into a pleasant peaceful frame of mind, almost devoid of thought. Despair and worry subsided. Suddenly the little cupids flew over and entangled themselves in Maddie’s long dark hair. “Don’t!” cried Maddie “We are smoothing out the tangles.” said Blem, earnestly pulling her hair “Collie!” shouted Maddie “Save me from these wretches.” In spite of herself she began to laugh. The three cupids untangled themselves and flew off into the sapphire sky. Meeyow appeared to quietly advise,” Don’t take the cupids seriously. They are babies and exist for fun and games only. I would smack them but I fear Hell. There is no fury you know mew like the fury of hell.” “But they are cupids. What do they have to do with Hell?” demanded Maddie. Nothing of course,” said the cat stretching out his left leg and giving it a good cleaning. ”My point exactly ,mew, my viewpoint, my candid cat opinion .Oh precious cupids from Paradise! They must not be smacked , can’t be scratched.. A lesson for our better selves-or so they teach us…” “I see,” said the girl.” They are creatures of Paradise and so protected.” Meeyow yawned widely. ”Hmmm “ she purred in a bored tone.” Every soul knows that! Still those three cupids are annoying ,mew “ “Why are the cupids here if they are from Paradise?” asked Maddie deep in thought. “Well meow. I was born in Paradise and as you can see here I am” They kicked me out for being too curious, curious like you ,my girl, asking too many questions…Collie, Clowe and The king Tree and myself are ancient guardian spirits. .You could say that we are here for you.” “You are here for me?” repeated Maddie quite overcome. “We are here to help you through the Edge of Paradise.” “Can’t I stay here with you all?” asked Maddie almost in tears. “Don’t cry girly,” exclaimed Clowe from his cloud above them. ”You don’t want to summon the rain clouds!” Clowe’s cloud was shaped like a large white pirate ship and Maddie saw Gill and Jill Glimmer, in seagull form flapping their wings at her from the ships’ deck. “Hello hello!”they called to her. Collie bounded up and leapt into her arms. Maddie snuggled him close feeling love for the small dog. “I see you’ve met our canine resident, Collie. “said Meeyow, reappearing again… “Collie is Collie and all in all not so bad -for a dog.” Meeyow shuddered slightly and Collie giggled (This is another sound which I can not describe) “Where are the cupids?” asked Madeleine. “Probably in Hell” replied Jill Glimmer shaped once more as a seagull in a tutu.. “Why on earth…?” began Maddie and was interrupted by Gill Glimmer. “It’s not Earth Child and this is the Edge of Paradise. Hell is not that far away. The cupids, in their extreme innocence, find Hell entertaining. We must all go there.” This really makes no sense to me at tall!” exclaimed Maddie. ”This place …well it’s not like any religion on earth. I have no desire to go to Hell” “But you must Dearie,”soothed Mrs. Glimmer patting Maddie softly with her long white wing. “Yes” agreed Gill somewhat sternly.” We must show you.” “To Hell now Madeleine!” bellowed Clowe and his cloud burst into brilliant orange flames. Maddie screamed at the top of her lungs. Moments later, as she slowly opened her eyes she felt bitterly cold. Smoke was all around her in a thick pinkish colored haze. The smoke was sweet smelling and somehow soothing and she inhaled it. She got shakily to her feet and stood upon what looked like fine red sand.(It was in fact billions of crushed rubies.) As she began to walk forward her feet crunched along the ruby sand. There were no other sounds and not a soul in sight. Glancing above she realized that there was no sky. This world owned only a deep inky blackness unrelieved by a single starlight sunray or moonbeam. The little girl cried aloud in panic and sheer loneliness for her companions. “Collie!” she cried and there was no answer, Mrs.Glimmer.Jill?” and there was no reply “Gill,Mr.Glimmer”! she called receiving no response. “Clowe” called Maddie in tears “”Now why would a cloud cleaner by here?” said Meeyow , and Maddie was so glad to see her that she squeezed her hard right in the middle of her stomach. “Meeyow” she howled and Maddie loosened her grip “I am here Maddie” mewed Meeyow. ”I hate it here!” “Well, I have seen enough!” Let’s go!’ said Maddie shivering and unhappy. “Humph” retorted the cat. ”I thought that you wanted to see about the cupids “ There they were right on cue, pulling the ears of a miserable looking creature who was sobbing like a small child. Kindhearted Madeleine begged them to leave the creature alone. “Yes,” said Harte and made himself busy in Maddie’s long dark hair.Blem and Val flew over giggling and pitching their orange arrows at Meeyow and Maddie. “Please get out of my hair!” pleaded the girl almost in tears. Exasperated, Meeyow scratched the right wing of Harte ,and the three little cupids all shrieked at once in disharmony. “We want to go home” they sang out in unison.. The creature with the ears and tail was joined by several others similar to him. I will describe these hellions the best that I can. Their bodies were naked to the waist and skinny. They all possessed piggy pink flesh, red eyes permanently shedding hot red tears. Their tiny mouths turned way down in perpetual sorrow. They had the ears and hooves of a mountain goat and a tail in the form of an arrow. (Perhaps it was the arrowed tails which the cupids found so irresistible.)Cupids, of course are passionate about arrows. Blem Val and Harte bellowed aloud their cupidic childlike rage and were joined by all of the hellions. Their noisy wails resounded and ricocheted off into the empty space of Hell.Maddie covered her ears and sang a song loudly of her own invention. Meeyow began to howl and cat call.. All at once Gill Glimmer, dressed as a large white swan swooped down from somewhere above and silence ensued. “You silly dears” said Jill Glimmer appearing as a tiny pink and white pigeon. She addressed the three cupids.” You cannot go home from here. Off you go to the Edge of Paradise.: Maddie was delighted to see the Glimmers. She felt safe in their presence. The sad hellions began wailing again. “Can’t something be done for them” asked the sympathetic Maddie . “They are content as they are” said Gill a trifle sadly. “They are blind to all but their own self inflicted misery.” said Jill. “The hellions think only of themselves and are imprisoned in their own self absorbed despair.. Now enough Madeleine you jump on Gill’s back. Gill Glimmer was a Pegasus again and Maddie perched herself on his white back and Meeyow unexpectedly jumped into her arms in a single bound and buried his face in her chest shivering.. Off they flew and the nest thing Maddde knew she was safe and sound on the soft green grass of the Edge of Paradise. Collie was there waiting and danced up and down in his excitement to see her back safely from Hell. “Welcome back “ sang Clowe doing a little tap dance on his cloud which was shaped like a sumptuous blue silver and white ballroom with stars for chandeliers.. “I don’t feel much like dancing” said Maddie feeling depressed. “Just the ticket!” insisted Clowe and the next thing Maddie knew she was wearing a shimmering dress in her favorite old color of rose pink. Collie was wearing a pink bowtie and stood up on his hind legs becoming exactly her height. Collie winked and a 4 piece rock and roll band began to play music from the 1960s.. The band was resplendent with exceedingly famous rock musicians. Maddie was too young to recognize any of them but maybe you would have! Meeyow sat watching fastidiously licking her fur. “Meeyow,” she grumbled to nobody in particular. “The stench of hell will linger on my fur for days!” Maddie and Collie stopped dancing. Collie scampered off on four feet. “I didn’t see much of hell” said Maddie “There is not much to see!” said Val pulling on her hair as usual.” No just what we saw for miles on end. There are no changes no goodness nothing nice” “No” said little Harte beginning to cry., partly in pain due to his sore wing. ”I’m never going there again” “Well four visits are enough” agreed Blem as he studiously started to braid half of the girl’s mane of dark hair. “Let’s go for a swim” exclaimed Collie bounding into view. “Lets all go” chorused the three cupids “”No arrows please” said Madeleine firmly. Maddie, Collie and the three cupids alit upon Clowe’s ballroom cloud and there they saw a large swimming pool containing violet colored sea water .Clowe hovered in mid air above the pool. “Meeyow the cat will not be swimming this time” stated Clowe “We have received a serious complaint from Above regarding…Clowe unfurled a piece of parchment scroll.”As I was saying Paradise has been notified of this Cat’s vicious attack on the cupid Harte. The Heavens are displeased.” Harte and his brothers began to cry. “But my wing will be okay” protested Harte who was very fond of Meeyow.. ”Please don’t hurt Meeyow” “Of course Meeyow will not be hurt” said Jill Glimmer appearing and wearing a long iridescent robe with human feet barely visible but human feet they were. She had a beautiful woman’s face with high sculpted cheekbones, and long wavy white blonde hair .Her eyes were deep blue and long and large with shimmering thick silver eyelashes. The mouth was of medium size with a fine shape and very pale pink in color. Jill Glimmer was dressed as an angel and Maddie was absolutely enthralled “Harte, Blem Val” Jill Glimmer said to the three cupids “You are to return to Paradise. Sheruby has summoned you” Meeyow stood on his four paws with feline tears pouring down his furry face and the loyal Collie scampered over to console and lick his friend’s cat face. Harte patted Meeyow awkwardly on her head. “We have been called home,” said Harte proudly “Summoned” corrected Val turning a somersault and pelting Meeyow with several arrows. The cat did not even move. “Summoned” echoed Blem . Immediately the three small cupids disappeared. There was a somewhat somber hush at the Edge of Paradise. “Who is Sheruby” asked Maddie breaking the silence. Sheruby is a divine creature half fairy half angel with shape shifting abilities. Gill Glimmer and Jill Glimmer are from the same species. These people are exceedingly rare. There are less then a hundred beings.” Clowe stood on his cloud shaped like a cathedral. Organ music poured down in visible musical notes “Your stay at the Edge of Paradise is almost at an end dear Madeleine” said Clowe smiling a sad smile. “One last swim before you depart?” suggested Meeyow timidly “You’ve been given a reprieve Cat” said Clowe sternly “You must continue here at the Edge of Paradise for a few more days.” Meeyow sighed deeply but nodded accepting his punishment for harming a creature of Paradise. Maddie saw a stone well and Jill and Gill dressed as white chickadees were dipping in their beaks. Meeyow lapped from a bright blue bowl which she happily shared with Collie… Mrs. Glimmer transforming into an angel handed Jill a golden goblet full of bright sparkly green liquid. Maddie drank and the taste was delectable .Imagine the taste of raspberries, cherries, strawberries, lemons and limes baked in dark chocolate with caramel on top. “Good bye Maddie” said Clowe solemnly. “Good bye Maddie,” said Meeyow “But I will see you in just a few more days .I don’t know how long days are…” her voice trailing off into an embarrassed purr. “I’m coming with you Maddie” cried collie leaping into her arms. Jill Glimmer stretched out a white wing and took the girl’s left hand. Gill stretched out his wing and then clasped the right hand of Maddie. “Where are we going?” asked Maddie “We are taking you home to Paradise” said Gill and Jill in unison And so Maddie went to Paradise. Paul Pekin lives in Chicago, Illinois where he has worked as a printer, storekeeper, teacher of writing (at Columbia College and the School of the Art Institute). and police officer. His work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Reader, Sou'wester, Other Voices, The MacGuffin, the Little Patuxant Review, and many other literary, commercial, and Internet publications. His work has won prizes from the Illinois Arts Council and the Chicago Headline Club THE CLOWNThe clown was driving an old Buick station wagon with several boxes of gifts and party favors in the back. He was a regular clown in a regular polka dot clown suit with a big flowered tie dangling from his unpainted neck. His face was cake white with enormous red lips and there was a little bell on the tassel on his cap and--as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he kept a set of size thirty-six false bare feet on the seat beside him. Children especially liked to step on these feet and the clown especially liked to cry out in simulated pain.
On Walters Road there was a car in the ditch with the driver standing by, and the clown pulled up to help. "Are you all right?" he called to a young man who had injured nothing more than his pride. The young man stared at the clown. There was not a trace of emotion in his sallow face. "Anything I can do?" the clown said. The young man took a step. He seemed to be thinking. He was wearing boots, blue jeans, and a leather jacket that was zipped right up to his throat. "What is it you think you can do?" "I can drive you to a gas station.” The young man's expression did not change. People usually showed a bit more curiosity when greeted by a fully costumed clown. "Okay. You can drive me to a gas station." The clown removed the false feet from the front seat to make room for the young man. "My feet," he explained. "I like to have them on when I get to the picnic. I do picnics. I get out of the car with my big feet on and the kids run up and step on them." The young man did not smile. He showed no more interest in the false feet than he would have in a pair of old gym shoes. "Can't drive with them on," the clown explained. "I'd end up in the ditch." "Like me," the young man said. "Sorry," the clown said. "Do you think you broke anything?" "Broke what?" 'Your car. When you went in the ditch.” 'Oh, who gives a damn about the car," the young man said. "It isn't mine." "Well, we'll get you towed out," the clown said. "There's a Shell Station a mile along. But I'll have to leave you there. I can't be late for the picnic." "What picnic?" the young man said. The clown had been waiting to hear this. Sooner or later, everyone wants to know about a clown. "Odd Fellows," he said. "Let me show you." He opened the glove box with his white-gloved hand and took out a printed handbill. Twelfth Annual Picnic. French Creek Forest Preserve. Food, games, prizes. Kelly the Klown. "That's me," the clown said. " I'm Kelly. It's a hobby and, you know, I like kids, I really like kids." The young man was silent, his face expressionless. "It goes on all summer. I'll do one, maybe two a week. You get a few bucks, but it's a hobby, really. I'm retired, so it's something to do. You should hear those kids. They say, Here comes Kelly the Clown!" "And then they step on your big feet." "Yeah!" the clown laughed. "They step on my big feet!" The young man was not laughing. He was not even smiling. "Kids hate clowns," he said. "Naw, naw, naw, don't you believe . . . " The clown stopped in mid-sentence. The young man had reopened the glove box and removed the clown's wallet. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" The young man counted the bills in the clown's wallet. "That's all you got? That's all?" He sifted through the credit cards and I.D.'s and found the clowns driver's license. The photograph showed an elderly man with a wisply halo of white hair circling his bald head. "What do you think you're doing?" the clown repeated. "Shut up," the young man said. "Keep your hands on the wheel and shut up." The Shell station was coming up on the left hand side of the road. There was a brand new yellow tow truck parked next to the garage bays. The young man read the clown's thoughts. "Never mind," he said. "Just keep driving." Several miles further down the road the clown said in a quiet voice: "I'll be late for my picnic." "Thirty eight bucks," the young man said without changing his expression. He rolled the money into a ball, thrust it into his pocket, and threw the clowns wallet, cards and all, out the window. The clown stepped on the brake pedal. Then he saw that the young man had drawn a gun. "Just keep on driving," the young man said. "I have to think." It was a small chrome colored automatic pistol and the clown did not doubt for one moment that it was real. He could feel the sweat start up under his arms. It was a lovely morning with the sun just getting strong, with the roadside bright and green, with traffic brisk, light, and preoccupied--who would miss a clown if he failed to show at a scheduled picnic, who would think to look into his whereabouts, who would ever imagine that Kelly the Klown had been taken captive? "Thirty eight bucks," the young man repeated. "I've got to have more than that." He poked the gun into the clown's ribs. "Pull in over there." "Over there" was a little strip mall adjacent to a row of yellow brick suburban homes. The mall had a Seven Eleven, a travel agency, a laundromat, and a chop suey restaurant. "Let's make it the Seven Eleven," the young man said. As soon as the car came to a stop, he slipped the gun into his jacket, pulled a silk stocking from the other pocket, and drew it masklike over his face. "Put on your big feet," he ordered the clown. "And then you just do what I tell you to do." There were six people in the Seven Eleven--a young woman with a long blonde pony tail at the register, an older woman with a sour face making sandwiches behind the counter, three customers with coffee and newspapers waiting to buy their cigarettes and lottery tickets, and an off duty sheriff's deputy who was using the washroom usually reserved for employees only. The people by the registor saw only the clown with the big bare feet when he and the young man entered. "Hey, it's Bozo," one of the men waiting to buy a lottery ticket exclaimed. The clown felt his mouth so dry he could not even speak. He placed one of his white gloved hands in his pocket as he had been instructed to do and waited. The young man at his side brought up the little automatic where everyone could see it. "This," he said through his stocking mask, "is not a toy. "We want your money, all of it." There was a moment of disbelief. Then the woman who was making the sandwiches took a cautious step that brought the girl at the register between herself and the gun. "Watch it," the young man said, and that was when the off duty deputy emerged from the washroom. The deputy was also a young man and like every young deputy in this country he carried his gun off duty in hopes that someday would come the chance to use it. Only last weekend, on a tape he rented from Blockbuster's, he had seen a movie in which two outlaws, disguised as clowns, had robbed a bank. It took this young deputy only seconds to recognize the situation and it never once occurred to him that public safety might have been better served had he just quietly turned back and remained in the washroom. The young deputy stepped around the counter, drew his weapon, a forty-five automatic, and shouted, "Freeze! Police!" A moment later he had emptied the clip and the young man with the stocking mask, was running from the store, doubled over, clutching at the dark hot blood that was pulsing from his abdomen. The clown was lying dead on the floor. A round from the deputy's weapon had taken him squarely in the face and emerged from the back of his bald head along with most of his brains; the clown had been knocked clean out of his funny false feet. The young deputy, running hard, vaulted over the body, burst out the door, and pointed his empty gun at the fleeing Buick. There was a trail of blood all the way to where it had been parked. The people in the store were standing at a careful distance from the clown's body when the deputy returned. The young deputy had never felt so light of heart, so filled with ease and pride; it was as if he were walking on air. "I called the police," the sandwich lady said. "He won't get far," the deputy said. "I got him good. I got them both good. How about it? This is one clown who'll never rob another store." "He's an old man," the girl with the blonde ponytail said. "He's a dead man," the deputy said. He walked back to the cooler, found himself a diet cola, popped the tab and started to drink. For some reason he was unable to stop until he emptied the can. the end Shamar English is originally from Santa Barbara, California, but he lives in Douglasville, Georgia. He has an Associate of Arts Degree in film from Georgia State University. He is currently pursuing his Bachelor’s degree at Georgia State University. He has pieces published in literallystories2014, Better than Starbuck, the writing disorder, the mystic blue review, eskimopie.net, not your mother’s breast milk, Susan/The Journal, Litro Magazine, Terror House magazine, Bull & Cross, Stinkwaves magazine, and The Stay Project. NOSTALGIATen-year-old Josh Carmichael comes from a loving family like the wholesome ones on television. He has happily married parents, Trish, and Jason, two siblings, Jessie, and Liam. They typically do everything together as a unit like breakfasts, dinners, trips, movies, cookouts, and board games. Lately, Trish and Jason are aloof with one another. He is working a lot. She isn’t acting like her warm-hearted, doting, and proactive self. She just lies in bed all day. His sixteen-year-old older brother Liam is rebelling, skipping school, doing drugs, drinking, and leaving him and their eight-year-old little sister Jessie alone to fend for themselves. The next morning surfaces and Jessie, Liam, and Josh are at the kitchen table eating cereal. The footsteps upstairs rappel into the kitchen then Trish emerges from her bedroom like a perfect storm, sprinting downstairs. She shouts, and her children flinch splattering milk. She flips the glass table over in the living room, it smashes into pieces, and they catapult out of their seats. Josh is speechless. For the first time, he is seeing his mother in a bleak light like she is Dr. Jekyll as he cowers at a distance. Jessie, Liam, and Josh use the kitchen table as a buffer. She has one hand planted firmly on it, and the other hand clutches a yellow broomstick with a black handle. Trish screams to the top of her lungs, “I can’t do this anymore! “I should have walked away from you all when I had the chance. I wish you were all dead! You ruined my life.” It is a swift punch to their hearts. Trish bangs the broom on the table consecutively like a gavel. She knocks the flower vase off the table along with the carton of milk and cereal bowls. The vase shatters into pieces, decorating the floor. “Stop mom, please. Stop,” the children say. Trish only does it harder and faster like she’s wielding an ax. Trish suddenly ceases the banging and begins to chase them around the table. Trish halts and cries. She chases them again then halts and cries. Josh stares into her dreary hazel eyes. She looks at him with disgust. Josh’s heartbeat echoes in the room like an explosion. It is noon. Jason is upstairs asleep. He worked a double last night. Liam sees an opening, flees upstairs. He leaves Jessie and Josh behind. Trish trails him, swinging the broom. Jessie steadily wipes the tears from her woeful eyes. Josh tries his hardest to repress his tears. He listens attentively to the thumping and mom’s loud rambling. The noise finally quells after a few minutes. Jessie and Josh give the dust thirty seconds to clear and reluctantly head upstairs. The two hear chatter in their parents’ bedroom. They creep down the hall to it. Josh spots the broom sticking out the ajar door. He gently pushes the door open. Liam stands against the wall paralyzed, watching Jason console Trish as she bawls her red velvet eyes out. Jason just keeps holding on for his dear life. “I’m right here. I’m right here,” Jason says. The growing tension in the room is too thick to even cut with hydrochloric acid. # Trish shields her eyes from her family like they are mendacious creatures. She keeps her lips pursed in the car. They finally arrive and enter the hospital. Jason admits her. She walks past them with her lips still pursed. A nurse and orderlies escort her to the psych ward. Josh’s eyes are drier than a roast. He takes slow, short breathes. Jessie screams, cries for her. Trish’s eyes remain forward. She keeps going, and the double doors swing shut behind her. Jason grabs his little girl, hugs her tight. Later that week, Trish’s doctor informs the family that she is bipolar with a long history of depression. Jason is just as shocked as anyone. Trish did not ever speak a word about her history of depression. Josh watches his dad wrestle with the surprising revelation, day in and day out. He puts on a brave façade for them. They try to visit Trish every day, but she always rebuffs them. A couple of weeks later, Jason is having dinner with the kids. The doorbell rings, he answers the door, and It is two officers. He clutches the door knob. “Good evening, officers. How can I help you?” Jason says. “Excuse me, Mr. Carmichael. “We regret to inform you that your wife has committed suicide earlier this evening” one officer replies. Jason goes numbs. Jessie and Liam sob. Tears pour from Josh’s eyes like a leaky faucet. THE END NEGATIVE It was a sparkling day in Crescent, Pennsylvania, the sun shined like a great ball of fire. Shadows encompassed a dilapidated house with blacked-out windows and chipped red paint. White sheets covered all the mirrors in the home. A woman with flushed cheeks, drowsy eyes, and frizzy hair sat against the wall like a log. # A tall man in a black suit with a loosened tie stood outside on her porch. He knocked demonstratively. “Jasmine?! Jasmine, open up!” The woman lifted her head up then lowered it. He looked underneath one of Jasmine’s flower pots and grabbed the spare key. He unlocked the door, opened it, and walked inside. “What are you doing here, Kevin? I broke up with you, so please go but leave the key and don’t ever come back.” “I’m not going anywhere until you give me an explanation for the break-up and why are all the mirrors in your house either missing or concealed.” Kevin folded his arms, “Jasmine, what is this?” Jasmine brushed her frizzy hair back and sighed. “Fine. My reflection isn’t my reflection. It’s my doppelganger and it’s trying to take my place here.” Kevin averted his eyes from Jasmine, approached her telephone and picked it up, “Yeah, I’m calling the men in white coats.” Jasmine emphatically ripped the phone cord out of the wall. Kevin thought Jasmine was on drugs because this behavior was unlike her. Jasmine dropped the phone cord on the floor. “I’m not crazy. And this is the reasons why I broke up with you because you’re the opposite of supportive and optimistic. You don’t know the meaning of unconditional love.” Kevin refused to accept her evaluation of him. He followed Jasmine into her bedroom. She then ran into the bathroom in her bedroom and closed the door in his face. Kevin spotted the large mirror, stopped, approached it, pulled off the sheet that covered the glass, and analyzed it. Kevin turned away from the mirror and his reflection scowled at him. Kevin planted his eyes back on the mirror and trembled. He swung his arms around, but his reflection sneered at him as it pressed its fingers on the glass. Kevin’s reflection stuck its hands through the mirror, grabbed both sides of it, and pulled himself through the mirror. Kevin stumbled backwards into the wall. Jasmine returned to the bedroom and the sheet covered the mirror, “Okay, time’s up. Leave.” Kevin grinned and pivoted to her. “Jasmine, I’m sorry. I believe you. I’m here to support you and I’m not going anywhere.” Jasmine frowned, “Really? Whatever.” Kevin looked around and brushed off his shoulders. Jasmine peered at him. “I get covering the mirrors with sheets, but why did you black out all the windows?” Jasmine replied, “My reflection tried to come out one of them.” Kevin listened and nodded, “Do you think you’re the only one with a doppelganger?” He circled Jasmine. “Well, if you have a doppelganger, I’m pretty sure that I have a doppelganger and everyone else in the world, don’t you think?” Jasmine’s heart pounded faster than a drummer. “I mean, there’s a whole other world out there, with our doubles and you guys have things over here that we don’t have over there.” Jasmine tilted her head. “You’re not Kevin.” He snatched the sheet off the mirror and Jasmine’s doppelganger stood in it, opened her eyes, and grinned. “No, but my name is Kevin.” Jasmine ran to the door, but Kevin restrained her as the doppelganger climbed out of the mirror. She rose to her feet, “You really thought you could keep me out forever.” Jasmine struggled with Kevin, but he held her tighter. He dragged Jasmine in front of the mirror. “Why are you doing this to me?” She oscillated around Jasmine, “Because I can.” She pushed Jasmine in the mirror then shattered it. THE END AMBIGUOUS Grandma offers me a piece of candy. Of course, I say yes. My parents don’t let me eat sugar. “Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” she said. My eyes are sealed like a jar of pickles, “I wonder what kind of candy she’s going to give me. An Airhead? No. A Blow Pop? Nah. I know, licorice? Uh-uh. I got it, a Twix. Yeah, a Twix. I never had chocolate before but I want some so much. Grandma’s not as bad as I thought.” I cheese harder than Lewis Skolnick. “Okay, now open your eyes, sweetheart” she said. Grandma has a grin the size of a melon. I look down at my hand and all I see is something round, white with red stripes in plastic. “I thought you were giving me a piece of candy, this is a peppermint. This isn’t candy. You’re a liar and I want to go home.” Grandma’s grin evaporates like an aspirin in a glass of water. “First, watch your tone, young man. Second, it’s candy and good for you.” I toss the peppermint to the floor. “Peppermints are not candy. They’re just not. Anyone who says they are needs a cat scan. I hate you and this is the last time you’ll ever see me.” Grandma snickers grabbing the phone. “She called my parents. I made a mistake. I’m only seventeen. I just really wanted some chocolate. Now, I have to eat dinner at her house for two months starting tonight. And we’re having porridge. Next time, I’m just going to say thank you and eat the damn peppermint” he says. THE END Pam Munter has authored several books including When Teens Were Keen: Freddie Stewart and The Teen Agers of Monogram (Nicholas Lawrence Press, 2005) and Almost Famous: In and Out of Show Biz (Westgate Press, 1986) and is a contributor to many others. She’s a retired clinical psychologist, former performer and film historian. Her many lengthy retrospectives on the lives of often-forgotten Hollywood performers and others have appeared in Classic Images and Films of the Golden Age. More recently, her essays and short stories have been published in more than 90 publications. Her play Life Without was produced by S2S2S, and nominated four times by the Desert Theatre League, including the Bill Groves Award for Outstanding Original Writing and Outstanding Play (staged reading). She has an MFA in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts. Her memoir, As Alone As I Want To Be, will be published by Adelaide Books in 2018. Note: As with most historical fiction, the people in this story were real. The situations, however, are wholly imagined. This is one of the stories in a series that was inspired by the lives of early Hollywood legends. It is 1949. Phantom at the Table She had forgotten how warm the rain can be in Los Angeles. When she left her apartment on East 57th in Manhattan that afternoon, she threw on her ermine coat against the chill. The doorman had slipped on the ice as he opened the door of her town car. Now in L.A., the limo driver had his umbrella ready as she left the terminal and held it over her head. “Welcome home, Mrs. Selznick.” “Thank you. But this isn’t home anymore.” Since divorcing and moving to New York, her life had been on a strong footing for the first time. And it was her life, finally. No more controlling men who knew better than she did. The driving rain obscured the sights along Lincoln Boulevard but Irene was lost in her own thoughts. How long had it been since she had been back to the Bel Air house? She didn’t think of it as home ever since her adolescence when she could occasionally escape to see how other people lived. The Mayer estate had been more like a posh prison to her and her older sister, Edie, with whom she hadn’t spoken in several years. “The Queen of Beverly Hills,” Variety had called her – entertaining at her own estate several nights a week, featured in the society pages of the Los Angeles Times nearly every Sunday. Irene had read about her father in Variety, of course. How his biggest stars were being released from their iron-clad contracts, how studio grosses were falling, how television was swallowing up the movie business. And Mother? Irene thought of her mother as the frozen, smiling palace guard, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be. She was the quiet enforcer but Irene was hard-pressed to remember any opinions her mother might have expressed that were her own. There were the frequently recited “shoulds” about how to dress, how to speak, how to walk, and most important, the imperative to confide only in the family and no one else. Irene didn’t harbor ill will toward any of them. Not really. It was more detachment than resentment. She had walked away from all of them, even while painfully aware of the mountain of unfinished business. She had followed the rules, mostly, dodging conflict with both parents and had moved on in stops and starts. But why think of that now? She was on a mission today. In spite of the frayed cord with what was a shadow family now, she felt an unspecified obligation to them. Well, to her father, at least. She was bringing news. And she was late. That would be the first emotional obstacle to overcome. As the limo turned east on Wilshire toward Bel Air,, Irene reminded herself that it had been her father who invited her there for dinner that evening. As usual, her mother had called to deliver the message. “Hello, darling. Daddy thought it would be wonderful if all of us had dinner together. Just like the old days. No husbands, no children. Just the four of us.” What an odd request, she thought, so startling she didn’t think to ask the reason. She seldom heard from her father, in fact. She saw him briefly when her play opened on Broadway, surprised that he had flown to New York to see her or maybe to take credit for it. Dinner at Luchow’s was stilted, both of them involuntarily regressing to their familiar dinner table conversations – all about him and his business dealings. He hadn’t said a word about the play. Nor had he called later after the announcement by the Critics Circle that the play she cast and produced had been nominated for Best Play of the year. So why the command performance tonight? Is he dying? Selling the studio? Given the history, she chuckled, it must be about the studio somehow. It didn’t matter. She had her own agenda. The limo maneuvered slowly up the driveway to the off-white mansion on St. Cloud, near the top of the mountain. She used to tell her one friend, “It was all the happiness money could buy.” “I’ll take care of your luggage, Mrs. Selznick.” “Thank you.” She didn’t know this driver, but she had fond memories of the other help, the real people in her life growing up. She walked to the front door and just for a second, hesitated. Should she knock? She had forgotten how forbidding and foreboding this place was. The neoclassical limestone exterior made it look as if it belonged in another country, another century. She took a deep breath and opened the unlocked door to the imposing two-story entrance. No one was there but she could hear voices coming from the distant dining room. She forced a smile and walked toward the noise. All three of them were seated at the table among cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. “Hi, everybody. I’m sorry to be late. The plane was delayed and the traffic on Wilshire was awful.” She had learned early on to provide the excuses up front, forestalling the possibility of blame. Edie, of course, was the first to pile on. “We’ve been waiting over an hour.” Mother read her scripted lines, just like the old days. “It’s all right, Darling. We’re just glad you’re here. Would you like a drink?” “No, thanks, Mother. I had a nip in the limo.” She heard the familiar growl. “Hello, Irene. You’re late. As usual.” She reached over to hug her father. It was easy to maintain the distant A-frame connection since he hadn’t risen from his chair. The tension was palpable before anyone said much at all, even after a likely 20 years had passed since they all sat at this table. Like a bad movie, Irene thought, film noir. Certainly not an MGM production. They had to be bright and colorful with the inevitable happy ending. Irene noticed that Edie looked as if she had work done on her face but that was logical, given how often she was in the public eye. She couldn’t have her celebrity guests looking better than she did. Irene knew she had to work to be cheerful with her sibling enemy. “And how’s the celebrated Mrs. Goetz? No parties tonight?” Irene couldn’t help the snark, a conditioned response. Edie merely smiled. The server entered with the first course, a salad. “Oh, Morton. I’m so glad to see you. How are you? How’re the kids?” “Thanks for asking, Mrs. Selznick. They’re all grown up. I’m a grandfather now.” “That’s wonderful.” “I put a few extra croutons on your salad. Just as you like it.” “How lovely. You remembered. Thank you.” When Morton left, Margaret couldn’t help herself. “You shouldn’t be so familiar with the help, Dear.” Then Edie echoed what sounded like a well-rehearsed line, spoken while bored. “They need to know their place.” Time seemed stopped inside Irene’s head. She could feel the oxygen thinning out and consciously struggled to deepen her breath intake. So this is how it’s going to be. “Oh, come on. We grew up with him. He’s like family.” Edie quickly jumped in. “No, he’s not.” Margaret leaned forward. “Isn’t it nice that we’re all together again? Just the four of us?” This was the opening Irene had waited to hear. “Yes. Why are we here, Daddy?” L.B. didn’t look up at his daughter but kept the flow of salad sailing into his mouth. He barely looked up from the stack of papers just to the left of the salad plate. “I’ve missed you, Irene.” Another big bite, then with a mouthful, “Oh, and you, too, Edie.” That made Irene quietly laugh. Same old Daddy. She knew she had been his favorite. Edie knew it, too, and it didn’t sit well. Why did he stoke their sibling rivalry that way? These days, Irene assumed that her parents saw Edie often, since they all entertained the same A-list Hollywood personalities. L.B. pushed the empty salad plate aside. “Remember when we’d go fishing off the Malibu pier? We’d spend the whole day together.” “I remember, Daddy. More like an hour. You were so busy.” “We’d talk and talk and talk. You were a good listener.” “Not much choice. You never asked about me or my life.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have to. I knew what you were doing. Where you were going. Who you were going with. I knew you wouldn’t tell anyone what we discussed.” “Yeah. I was just a kid but I knew all the secrets behind the scenes. I loved that part of it. Whose little traffic accident was being finessed, whose wife was having an affair, who was gay…” Margaret interjected. “You didn’t tell Irene things like that, did you, Lou? She was way too young to hear that.” L.B. and Irene grinned at each other like co-conspirators. But all that was a long time ago, she thought, and only a brief respite from the stifling and repressive conditions of her childhood. An oasis in the emotional desert. “OK. Daddy. Aren’t you going to tell us why we’re here?” The silence had lingered too long for comfort when Morton entered to clear the plates, returning a few minutes later with the entrée. For the first time since she arrived, she sat back in her chair and looked around the capacious dining room, larger than many people’s homes. The table dwarfed the four of them but the intent had always been clear: to keep everyone at a distance. The walls were covered with original paintings of the masters, the better to reflect the artificially cultivated values of the patriarch, flamboyantly demonstrating his success. The room housed not one but two Rodins. Tonight, she realized for the first time it was like one of his movie sets. Everything was perfect. Except the casting. Irene reconsidered how she would bring up her news. Should she wait until the end of the meal? Should she defer until she heard her father’s reason for the dinner? She didn’t like to admit it, but there was still a part of her that felt like a child in his presence. He wasn’t a large man, his face a stoic Rorschach, making him seem invincible and commanding, even in his own home. If his news was bad, she reasoned, she might not get her moment at all. Growing up in a show biz family left her with an awareness of timing and staging. Margaret smiled at her husband. “Look, Lou. Mildred prepared your favorite meal, beef stroganoff.” Irene knew her family was never short on irony. The daughters had been invited for some sort of mysterious special occasion but the meal had been selected to please the boss. Why did she think it would be any different? There was something so predictable, familiar in its demeaning pathology. The sauce smelled good, though, the plate garnished just so. L.B. suddenly pointed toward her. “You’re staying here tonight.” Edie responded quickly. “Well, I’m not. I have a house to go to. And a husband.” Irene chose to ignore the slime on her divorced status. She had promised herself not to get distracted or get caught up in this again. “No, not tonight. I reserved a suite at the Beverly Wilshire. I have to get back to New York tomorrow.” No reason to stay any longer than necessary, she thought. But now time was running out on this gathering and there had been no discussion of consequence. L.B. paused, gesturing with his fork in front of his face. “You know, you girls turned out pretty well. Edie, you’re the best hostess in all of Beverly Hills. Like a movie star without having to work for it. Your house is like the goddamned White House. Everyone wants an invitation. And Irene. Well, you’ve surprised us all.” Uh oh. She opted for a decidedly lighter tack. “Because I divorced David?” “No, no. Though I told you he was a no-good asshole. Never liked his father, either. Cheaters, liars, Pagans, Communists.” Cue the smoothing mother. “We don’t need to go into all that, do we, Dear?” Irene sat, waiting for the next line. She knew there was more. There was always more. “Irene, you’ve become a successful producer. Who knew you had it in you?” She was used to this backhanded praise. To dissect it would be too complicated and not the goal of the evening’s mission. “Thanks, Daddy.” Was this the opening she needed? She started to feel some internal pressure, a sudden urge to bolt. Her heart increased its tempo and her mouth started to go dry. She sucked in her stomach and began with simulated cheer. “I have an announcement.” Edie declared as if she knew what it was. “You’re getting married again!” “Absolutely not.” She laughed, easing her own tension. “Better than that, I hope. And more permanent. I’m writing a book.” She looked at everyone’s blank faces, one by one. Her mother predictably poured syrup over the portentous disclosure. “That’s nice, Dear. But I don’t know how you find the time with everything else you’re doing. You’re so busy back there in New York.” Edie couldn’t help herself. “What’s it about?” With his expected demeanor of certainty, her father signaled he knew by wagging his index finger. “It’s about me. Who better to write my biography than my own daughter? I could have the studio guys do it but they’d get it all wrong.” Her breathing grew faster now. She felt frozen in the well-padded chair. When Morton came in to retrieve the plates, she felt both relief and impatience. “For dessert, Mildred has prepared petit fours, Boston cream pie and chocolate cake. We also have vanilla ice cream, if anyone would like it.” Irene couldn’t imagine eating now. She had barely made it through the entrée, which wasn’t all that good. Too heavy, like everything else tonight. She and her mother both declined. Edie asked for a piece of the cake. L.B., as usual, wanted it all. “Just bring me a piece of everything. Ice cream on the side.” “Yes, sir.” As he left the room, Irene knew the spotlight was on her. Time for her close-up. “Daddy, I’m sure your life would be a fascinating read but I’m writing an autobiography.” Her mother smiled and nodded. “So it’s about your father?” Irene had learned to respond to her mother’s limitations with patience. It was even more important tonight to keep it all as neutral as possible. “No, Mother. Auto. As in self. It’s about me.” Edie emitted an unguarded and inappropriately raucous guffaw. “Why would anyone want to read about you?” Irene dreaded her father’s reaction but he remained silent, studying the white tablecloth directly in front of him. It was perfect timing for Morton to deliver the desserts. If it had been a movie, she thought, there would be a loudly ticking grandfather clock. L.B. dug into the Boston cream pie with alacrity. “Your years with Selznick could be a major motion picture – a horror movie. Great topic for a book. If it sells, the studio might buy it.” Irene felt some inner homunculus pushing her forward into the abyss. “Well, the publisher wants stories from my life. My whole life.” She tried out a chirpy laugh. “You know, people are fascinated by us. We’re famous. At least, you are, Daddy. The editor wants to read stories from my childhood.” She wasn’t prepared for the total silence again and was startled when Edie spoke. “What did you write about me?” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her mother fall back into her chair, as if swooning. Her words spilled out in an accusatory way, but with a whine. “Oh, Irene. How could you? Your father spent so much time and money managing what goes out of this house, haven’t you, Lou? What will Louella and Hedda say?” L.B. was still again, escalating the tension. It was uncharacteristic of him to edit himself or control his impulses. In a rapidly spewing internal dialogue, Irene worked to reassure herself that she doesn’t live inside this family any more. That she’s nearly 40 years old, divorced with two children. That she’s a successful Broadway producer. That she has friends, even some doting men in her life. The deafening stillness was interrupted intermittently by the clanking of his fork against the plate as he devoured the pie. Never one to absorb subtlety, Edie repeated herself, this time a little louder. “What did you say about me?” Perhaps it would be enough to quell the unspecified threat, she thought. Maybe they’d settle for this. It was all about containment now. “I wrote about how you teased me all the time about my stutter. I think you liked to see me cry.” As usual, Margaret stated the revisionist history. “Edie wouldn’t do that, Irene. You two girls got along just fine.” It was as if the corpse of the old script had been resuscitated. Edie cocked her head to one side, like she did when she would tease Irene. “Rene, Rene, Rene, who s-s-s-s-stutters a-a-a-all the t-t-t-time.” Irene let her have that one. It only proved her point “I also wrote about how you were the pretty one.” Margaret nodded. Edie was quick to agree. “Well, that part’s true.” Now that she had delivered the news, Irene began to formulate her departure strategy. It hadn’t been so bad, after all. She could feel her breathing returning almost to normal. And then he spoke. “What else, Irene? About the family.” “Oh, I don’t really want to…” His tone grew more insistent, the one few safely ignored. “I want to know. What else?” This was the moment she was dreading. She scanned her memory, trying to come up with something that would be prudent, long forgotten in the past, something that wouldn’t raise the temperature. “Um. I wrote about how you wouldn’t let me go to college.” She watched all three of them visibly relax. It had been just the proper disclosure, apparently. Oddly. “I did you a favor. Girls don’t need to go to college. You and Edie have done just fine without that bookish folderol. Your mother taught you everything you needed to know.” “Thank you, Dear.” Margaret seemed relieved. Irene couldn’t leave it alone. She wondered how long she could quell the rising volcano. “But you wouldn’t let me read books, either. I had to sneak off to the library after school to read anything other than textbooks.” Margaret in her reassuring tone added, “You’re right, Dear. If I saw a book in your bedroom, I’d tell Mildred to throw it out.” Irene wouldn’t let her family know how appalling this had been to her, then and now. But she serendipitously had found the perfect example. Now if she could only find an exit line… “What else?” the lion roared as he stuffed the remainder of the ice cream in his mouth. She quickly reviewed some of the stories in the book, ones that could be considered neutral or even flattering. She knew about her mother secretly sending money each month to her father’s older sisters when he wouldn’t cough up a cent. That went on for years. He thought they were deadbeats, undeserving of their brother’s largesse. Irene adored her aunts. No, that probably wouldn’t be a good choice. No reason to create dissent between her parents. OK, she said to herself. This one will be in the book. She understood she was entering a minefield and would wonder later why she took such a chance. But there was one particular event she needed to discuss, a harbinger. She decided to lead into it slowly, shaping each word like a sculptor. “You were strict with us in every conceivable way, Daddy, rules about everything – who we could talk to, what we should discuss, what we could wear. You wouldn’t let us close our bedroom door even if we were alone. You didn’t want us to be around boys or have friends outside the family.” She saw him nodding. “I was always thinking of you girls. You were my only concern. I treated you with no less care than I would my stable of shining stars.” Of course, she knew that wasn’t true. It was seldom about their welfare. The only time he was home was for dinner. And then all he talked about was his day at the office. But that wasn’t the topic here. Stay on track, she reminded herself. “Remember the night you invited Charlie Chaplin over for dinner? I wanted very much to meet him. I loved his movies. I waited for that night all week. It’s all I could think about. I wondered if I might talk to him about his work but I knew I shouldn’t. It would have made you angry.” Her mother smiled, reminiscing about what she thought had been a lovely evening at home. “I remember that night very well. Thelma called his cook to find out what he liked and made his favorite dinner. Veal scaloppini, as I recall it, with raw cauliflower and hollandaise. It was a perfect meal. Cocktails before. Didn’t we have a string trio that night, too? After we dined, you took him into the den for cigars and brandy, Lou. It was a wonderful evening.” As usual, her father’s impatience broke through, fracturing the warmth of her mother’s words. “Why would you write about that? It’s shabby to use Chaplin’s name to sell books, Irene.” In spite of the alarms going off in her head, Irene continued. This might be her only chance, not only to clarify that evening but to warn her father of what was to come – in print. “There was much more going on that night. First, Edie, you were all over him. You kept smiling at him, making goo-goo eyes, laughing too hard at all his jokes, sitting too close on the sofa. It was embarrassing.” Edie stiffened to defend herself. “I was just being polite. A good hostess.” Again, Irene let this ridiculous assertion go. No point in getting distracted with family garbage. At least not this particular bundle. “But the part that was confusing to me then, the part you’re all forgetting. He brought a guest with him that night.” Margaret bristled. Irene had sensed this might rile her, perhaps more than it would her father. “Oh, yes. That woman.” “Mother, it wasn’t a woman. It was a girl. A teenager. She couldn’t have been much older than we were.” Edie tried to get the focus off her attempted seduction of Chaplin. “I remember now. She looked like she had troweled the makeup on. Drowned herself in cheap cologne. Clothes too tight. Whoa. How could I forget that?” A funny little smile crept over her father’s face. Irene had seen that face before, as he sat behind his massive desk at the studio. He put on that smile when Garland walked in or when he looked at Lana Turner. His features softened. “She was lovely.” When her mother spoke, it was so soft. It was almost a whisper. “They all were.” So many scenes flooded back in that moment but Irene had to be selective. Say it and get out of there. “She was underage. After all your pontificating about right and wrong, lecturing us about proper conduct. It was confusing to me then. Not now, of course.” L.B.’s voice suddenly grew louder and full of tension. He banged his fist on the table. “I couldn’t control who Chaplin brought into my home. He was a guest.” Seeing her father come undone surprisingly emboldened her. “Daddy, you controlled everything and everybody. This one seemed to slip through somehow. Why is that?” She knew she was taking a risk but it didn’t matter anymore. Nobody confronted L.B., especially not a woman. Especially not his daughter. “I wanted to sign Chaplin. His career had fallen in the toilet with the talkies. I could have had him for next to nothing. Why do I have to explain this to you? This is my family, not yours. Don’t you ever forget that.” Of course, he had always made that clear. The family was merely the petals of a daisy with her father at the center. She saw her mother shift uncomfortably in her chair. Her smile looked frozen in place as she spoke. “Well, I didn’t see anything. I thought we were just having a pleasant evening.” The family dynamics flashed through Irene’s head like a movie trailer. Daddy was always right, no matter what. And Mother was half-blind to all of it. She didn’t want to stop to comment, tempting as it was. There would be time in the book for that. She knew she had to finish this off. “I didn’t know what was happening that night, why I was so uncomfortable. I do now.” The silence was almost like white noise. Her words sliced right through it. “Chaplin was screwing that poor girl. Or was about to.” Her father waved his hand in dismissal. “That’s none of your business, Irene. Mine, either. Men will be men. You can’t fight nature.” Irene knew, of course, these things happened in the business where there seemed to be no ground rules. She didn’t care about Chaplin’s reputation for bedding young girls. She knew how the business of seduction worked. This was much closer to home. The non sequitur between that night and her father’s sanctimoniousness was too dissonant to ignore. Her eyes met his, black and cold. “Daddy, did you sign that girl to a contract?” Once again, the scene was interrupted by Morton who entered with a whoosh. Margaret had likely pressed the bell summoning him like a 911 call. “Would anyone like more dessert? Something else, perhaps?” When no one responded, he backed out with the same velocity with which he entered. L.B. cleared his throat. Irene got a whiff of his aftershave, now wafting over the table. “Irene. I won’t discuss this with you. What goes on at the studio is not your business.” There had been many like that young girl, likely passed around. All part of being “studio property.” But she knew her scene in tonight’s family drama was almost over. It would be futile to continue and anything that followed would be awash with the familiar family clichés. She rose to leave. “Don’t go.” His forcefulness startled her. For a second, she hoped he wanted to discuss it, to finally break through the two-dimensionality of their relationship. He continued. “I have something to say to you. Both of you. Sit down.” Irene looked over at an alert and anxious Edie and noticed her mother staring into her own lap. She sat, thinking this to be perhaps her last act of obedience to her father. “I called you both here because I want to say….Your mother and I are getting a divorce.” Irene quizzically looked to her mother. “What? Mother?” He cut her off. “It wasn’t up to her.” Margaret spoke as if announcing the results of her bridge game. “It’s true, Dear. It was your father’s decision. It has been coming for a long time.” Irene assumed there was another woman or women. It had to be somebody special because her mother had endured his persistent infidelity over the years. “Daddy, is there someone else?” “Of course not. And it’s none of your business.” Edie, roused from her stupor, swiveled her glance back and forth between who she thought were her loving parents. “I don’t believe it. It can’t be true. What will I do? What will people think? What will Bill think? What can I tell him?” L.B.’s easily roused anger returned. “This is about the family, Edie. Not Bill. And not you.” Irene watched her retreat, just as her mother had done all those years. Don’t ask, don’t tell. And, above all, don’t confront. L.B. pulled his soiled napkin off his nap, threw it on the table and rose. “I’m going back to the studio for a while. I have a meeting with Dore Schary. Good night, girls. Good night, Margaret.” The three women sat stiffly in their chairs, watching him walk out the door. It was likely only seconds, but it seemed longer. “I’m going home,” Edie choked out. “I can’t take this any more.” When she was out of sight, Irene turned to her mother, a question in her eyes. Irene was suddenly feeling the weight of the evening but she knew she had to finish this conversation because these conditions would never be the same. Some invisible layer had been peeled away. “I’m sorry. You did your best. I know that.” Her mother merely nodded. “Aren’t you angry at him?” “Of course. A little. I knew about…his life outside the family. But I didn’t know about her.” “I’ve just put it together myself over the past few years. How you kept it all together, the family illusions, minimizing conflict. I always wondered why Daddy was the only one who was allowed to get mad.” Her mother nodded again. Irene had an idea. But maybe it was too soon. What the hell, she thought. She’d laid so much out there tonight already. She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. She looked at it and handed it to her mother. “What’s this?” “This is my publisher’s card. Just a thought. When you’re ready, I’ll bet you have a story to tell.” Margaret abruptly dropped the card on the table. “I could never do anything like that. It wouldn’t be fair to your father.” Irene laughed. “Fair? You’re concerned with fairness? Think about it while your lawyer is negotiating with his, while he’s trying to screw you out of your life. You’ve never been on an equal footing. Can’t you see that now?” Irene got up, came around behind her and gave her mother a hug. “I have to leave in the morning but I hope you’ll come and visit me in New York any time you want. Good night.” She walked out of the dining room for what could be the last time. She turned around for one last look and saw her mother sitting at the massive table alone, staring at the card. She did what she had come to do but she knew there would always be a need for further family excavation. There would be another chapter to write. No matter what, her father would land on his feet. Or someone else’s. She was eager to return to New York where the weather was the only thing that chilled her. Sean Padraic McCarthy has stories recently published or forthcoming in New Reader Magazine, The Hopkins Review, Zymbol, Glimmer Train, Water~Stone Review, KAIROS, Fifth Wednesday Journal, The fiction anthology On Fire, and South Dakota Review amongst others. His story “Better Man” originally published in December Magazine was cited in The Best American Short Stories 2015, and his first novel, In the Midst of the Sea, is forthcoming in May 2019 from Pace Press. He lives in Plymouth, Massachusetts. The Channel |
Categories
All
|