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The After Hours . . . Short Story Vignettes

by

Phil

Morning

She rose after she had fallen asleep one last time. A morning shaft of sunlight through the slats in the wood blinds hit her square in the eye. She knew it was no use staying in bed. She filled the cream-colored basin with cool water, pulling handfuls up to her endearing face. It was refreshing and her calm brown eyes were no longer full of sleep. She pulled her white t-shirt off and cupped more water in her small hands, letting it waterfall down her neck and onto her fawning chest. Toweling off and feeling a quiver of goosebumps she decided to grab a flannel shirt from the walk in closet. She buttoned it with nothing underneath and slipped into her jeans that were hanging over a chair. She didn’t tuck the oversized shirt in and rolled up the sleeves half way. The warmth of the quilt shirt felt so welcome against her light soft skin. There was a dash of the first blush of the day in her cheeks. She ran her fingers through her hair instead of combing and fastened it in back with a silver pin - a pin once belonging to her Grandmother. She put on her watch, a gift that an adoring fan had sent her.

She was hungry but settled for two slivers of dry toast and a mug of juice. She was anxious to get back to reading the script that she left on the kitchen table late last evening. Starting a pot of coffee first she settled down in the only chair in the spotlight of the warm early rays of the sun streaming in the window above the sink. She nibbled the warm toast and pulled back the black cover of the script and started in. She loved the story, whispering some of the lines over and over again. She was glad to be ready to get back to work. As she read it she imagined Daniel opposite her and hoped that Anthony would be in it too. She felt warm when she thought of Hopkins. She loved him dearly. Daniel seemed more quiet and mysterious but she adored him as well.

Now she was hungrier. Reaching into the fridge she grabbed a small container of cottage cheese and reaching up in the cupboard she brought down a can of peaches to pour over it. The phone rang. It was her mother.

“What are you doing today?” her mother asked.

“Nothing,” she fibbed. There was much to do.

“Let’s spend the afternoon together, ok?”

“Ok.”

They both said I love you.

She no longer felt like a swirling current was pulling her under. Her life was buoyant again. That's what she was thinking now - she was no longer adrift. When they were done talking she wanted to hurry and finish reading so she could call Scorsese…
 

Sweet Things

Did I ever tell you about my favorite photograph of Winona Ryder?

Well....there's a little quiet out-of-the-way diner in New York, called The Cornerstone Cafe, that sits on a maple and elm-lined Market Avenue just a stones throw away from the business district. It's a gem of a place, nestled in between the Mayflower flower shop and the Sweet Things chocolate store. A perfect cross breeze I’d say. Outside, the facade has red and brown jagged bricks about knee-high, and then smooth white brick the rest of the way up to the sky. The only sign is a small blue flickering neon one that you can only view as you walk by. Inside is quite serene, with rich wood paneled walls, and mahogany-framed chairs with stitched leather seats and backs. There’s a permanent smell, one of the sweetness of apple crisp sizzling with cinnamon and brown sugar, that strikes you two blocks before you arrive. It’s a charming enough place where I bet some love affairs have started…..and ended. Needless to say, I go there as often as possible just to escape the big city. It’s a perfect place to finish a day.

It was a warm day, late last September. Some of the elm trees along Market were changing color already and a scattering of gold leaves had dropped in with the roses in the cobblestone planter by the front bay window. I was sitting at my table in the corner..you know, once you find a place like this, you always find 'my' table...and I'm just beginning to dive into my meal of the best pasta in town. The diner is empty, which I love, except for an older couple, Alex and Gena Arno, over by the window. Clouds of smoke are hovering from Alex’s after-dinner pipe, an aroma I have also come to know and love. There was some commotion outside for a few moments, and then in walked a big guy, a man about six foot seven, and muscular. He looked around quickly, trying to make eye contact with everyone as if he was looking for someone who owed him money. He walked up to Jenny, the haggard-looking sour waitress, said something quickly and pointed to a table in between the old folks and me. Jenny nodded slowly and reluctantly got busy. Then the gorilla turned and walked out. I looked at the Arno’s and we just shrugged at one another.

A car door slammed and the door opened briskly again and in walked a petite woman. I couldn't believe my bispectled eyes! It was the interrupted girl herself!...she would be so easy to pick out of a crowded room.....that unmistakable wholesome face, the color of the lightest petals from the sulphur rose! She was wearing faded blue jeans with a tear in the left knee, a white designer T-shirt with a black shirt tied around her waist. Her hair was shoulder length and flowing....absolutely beautiful, and she wasn't trying to disguise herself at all. What confidence! But yet...I detected sadness in her pale face.

Like on cue, almost choreographed, as soon as she sits at the pre-determined table, Jenny brought out her order and sets it in front of her. No special treatment...the same uncaring, unsmiling, disgusted waitress....like she's saying "shut up, sit down, and eat." Good ol’ Jenny. But, it never really bothered me because with a great owner and chef like Anthony in back it’s still my favorite eatery. Anthony Story, the owner, is one of those great old-fashioned wonders that’ll come out every once in awhile to see that every one is pleased with their meals.

It looks as though all she has in front of her is a salad, and as I’m eating I notice she just kind of picks at it like her mind is over in the next county. It looks as though she could burst out in tears at any moment. It doesn’t help that outside the window flashbulbs are lighting up the place inside. It startled me and the folks by the window like firecrackers. Outside we heard the big lug clearing out the intruders, but this beauty uncaringly sips her water. I guess she’s used to being looked at.

“Excuse me, miss,” I said quietly, “you know, if you let that salad sit there too long it’ll fester, multiple and overtake this whole room.”

She came alive and her face lit up. When she made eye contact with me I thought my heart would stop. She smiled shyly.

“I guess I’m just not too hungry,” she said slowly and sadly.

“Well, you know what they say…it’s never fun eating alone,” I said as I kindly gestured towards the seat opposite me.

“No…but thanks,” she said politely. But I wasn’t going to give up that easily. The flashbulbs were gone and the old folks, thinking it was safe to leave the friendly confines, got up to leave. We waved at each other as they left and exchanged friendly salutations. Nice people….the kind you want to handle your life savings, you know? So now, it was just her and me. I tried again.

“If you don’t eat, you’ll wind up looking as horrible as me,” I said matter of factly.

“Now you’re scaring me,” she said drolly. She smiled quickly and started to pick at her salad, but gave up again.

“Well, I’m a sight to behold while eating….people come from miles around just to watch me eat,” I said proudly. She scanned the café and nodded at me with a ‘yeah right’ look.

“Besides, you don’t want to remain scrawny forever, do you? You must try this pasta I’m having….Stortoni Pasta with red peppers and onions, and this wonderful apple butter that Anthony makes.” I rose and again motioned her to the seat at my table. She got up and joined me. Before sitting I grabbed her drink, utensils, and a plate that held breadsticks and brought them over.

“Here…try this!” I spread some of the apple butter on a hot biscuit and gave it to her. She hesitated, but I assured her I had plenty.

“Oh my God!…It’s great!” Her sparkling brown eyes widened as she devoured it.

“Isn't it though?” I dumped the breadsticks and dished out a portion of Stortoni Pasta onto it.

“You’ll love this too…Anthony’s secret recipe!”

“Oh, no, really.”

“Don’t fret…I have plenty…dig in!” It struck me that I didn’t even introduce myself.


“I’m Phil…” I said as I stretched out my hand towards hers. She grasped it softly with her small hand.
“What’s your name? Hey, I thought you weren’t hungry?” Her mouth was full and she looked at me with those wonderful expressive elfin eyes, and they said ‘You’re kidding…you don’t know?’

One of her Directors said once that she would’ve made a great silent movie star with her facial expressions – he was dead on.

“Let me guess…Mary?..Agnes?…Shirley?” At this point she was starting to giggle till she almost choked. “Margaret?…Penelope?…Kathy?….Kirma?” I stopped. I looked toward the window and thought of that last name. “Kirma. She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw,” I said, like I was thinking out loud. “She was the only woman I ever met with violet eyes. God, she was so lovely. But she was terminally shy, just like me. One day I asked her where she got that wonderful name and she told me her father was stationed over seas in Japan and met this woman with that beautiful name. She told him it meant ‘flower of the East,’ and he promised himself if he ever had a daughter…..”

I was silent for awhile and stared out the window lost in thought. Jenny had come over and was standing with her hands on her hips looking at our table incredulously.

“What the?….” She glared at me.

“Everything’s fine here, love.” I just buttered up another hot biscuit for my guest.

“Hey, Jenny, see if that gorilla outside the door wants a banana or something.” She walked away mumbling something about 'assorted nuts.'

My companion was laughing silently.

“I must say…as grumpy as she is, at least she is consistent, and she has always taken pretty good care of me when I come here. There is always a single fresh flower waiting for me. You know, Mary Agnes Shirley, I’d give you a hundred dollars if you could make her smile.”

After a bit I said, “You certainly have a wonderful smile, yourself.”

“Thanks.” I could see a slight blush. She took out a cigarette from her bag, and not finding a light there, I moved the cherry-colored globe candle on the table closer to her. She drew in a deep breath and then exhaled as though it was an essential ingredient of life.

“Are you from around here,?” she asked.

“Yeah…I work close by…I try to come to the café about three or four days a week. How about you?”
“I’m….working close by too.” She wanted to tell me more, but halted.

“So, what’s the story with the big guy…..your bodyguard?”

“Yes, I can’t go anywhere without….” she said softly, and her mood went dark again. She dropped her head and began to cry quietly. I was stunned for a moment and didn't know what to say. I reached across the table and gently touched her arm.

“Hey…shhhh…there now,” I said as soothingly as I could. “Besides, tears don’t mix well with pasta, you know.”

“I’m sorry.” She was dabbing at her eyes with a napkin I handed her.

“Ok now?” I hadn’t noticed that the gorilla had come back in and was making a beeline for me. I looked up and I could tell he was ready to pounce on me. I braced myself against the back of my chair.

“No!..no! It’s ok…he’s a friend!” I believe she saved my life. But he didn't return to the jungle.

“We have to go….you’re due on the set.” Hey, the gorilla speaks!

“I must go….,” she said apologetically with her head slightly tilted.

“Thanks for a lovely meal.”

“Ok…” I didn't want her to go.

“And for everything else…..”

“Ok.” I took the flower out of the tall, slim, butterscotch-shaded glass vase on the table and placed it in her hand. I believe it had fully bloomed in her presence.

“Goodbye.” She pressed my hand. I got up and kind of bowed to her. It seemed the natural thing to do.
She rose and walked with the thug to the door. It opened and a couple walked in and the goddess pulled the shirt that was tied around her waist up over her head as they headed out. I walked slowly over to the window and saw the car speed away.

“Goodbye, Winona Ryder,” I said quietly.

And she was gone.

A couple days later when I returned to the diner, as I was in my usual spot, Jenny brought over a large yellow manila envelope.

“Oh yeah, that little girl was in again, and left this for you,” she said in her monotone.

‘That little girl.’ When she said that my heart began to race. I hurriedly opened it and found that photo you see. A glorious eight by ten glossy! On the flip-side she wrote in blue ink a wonderful and witty message that I read over and over.

***

I got Anthony’s permission to put this golden framed photo on the mantel above the glowing flame of the fireplace here at the Cornerstone. It’s hard to miss when you first walk in. I can’t see it from my table, but it doesn’t matter – I have the vivid memory of her sweet touching smile forever in my mind.

Twilight

She could feel the rough textured pattern of the old brick sidewalk under her soft-shoes. She crossed at the four way near the Square and approached the Café. The globe streetlights came on now, fooled a bit by the gray overcast after a hard rain. But now the Sun peeked through and the sparkling streetlights were not needed and created an eerie atmosphere. But soon enough the Heaven’s opened again and it poured. She had welcomed the rain because a good hard rain narrows the possibilities of all she had to do. A good excuse simplifying her life at that moment. She stopped for just a moment before ducking into her favorite Café and watched the rain water gush out the downspout. She let it flood onto her right shoe for a bit and smiled as she thought of Gene Kelly and began to hum his signature tune.

Her oversized hat wasn’t enough to fool anyone. Not with that unmistakable delicate, fine, light skin and those brown almond eyes. Not even with a plain white t and baggy beige pants could she be mistaken. She pulled a book and a script out from underneath the dry confines of her jean jacket and exposed a gold chain and cross dangling from her mighty tower of a neck. From a corner table she motioned to Dorothy, the waitress, and Dorothy smiled back and nodded knowing exactly what she wanted. They had it choreographed perfectly, at least every time he had witnessed it from his table near the bay window. Dorothy was like a mother hen and on more than one occasion he’d seen her feathers ruffled keeping intruders away from Winona. He tried not to pay attention to her and went back to scribbling on the legal-sized pad. It was useless. Besides, knowing there was a chance she would not stop by again, he had this book he wanted to give to her. She always had a book tucked in with her when he saw her there, like a faithful companion. Now she was reading and just sitting there she looked like a painting. Or more like a masterpiece. He hesitated a moment about disturbing her. He imagined it would be like peering over Monet’s shoulder, breathing on his neck and saying, ‘Hey, fella, maybe you should paint that sky a little darker.’ Thinking about how to approach her without violating her space he decided to just stealthily walk over and quietly set it next to her without uttering a word.

He took the book out of my leather case sitting in the chair next to him. An original 1840's edition titled ‘The Young Lady’s Friend,’ a girl’s etiquette book from a gentler time. As he made his move he knocked his coffee off the slick table and spilt what was left over the front of his pants. So, he was no longer a stealth bomber having been detected by everyone in the place by the clear marking on his trousers. He heard a crotchety old woman whisper to another, “He must’ve messed his pants!” The old woman reeked of burnt chicken feathers. Or maybe it was her soup. He noticed something crawl out of it and hoped it had spawned while in the bowl. Now he had a surge of confidence. It was time for plan ‘B,’ but there wasn’t any. He just went over and pushed the gift towards Winona from the table’s edge.

“This is for you,” he said, dry-mouthed, with the upper lip stuck to his teeth.

Her courteous eyes widened. She took the book in both hands, gingerly smelled the ancient pages and opened its wings with her delicate white hands. Only another bookworm would handle it that way. He was thrilled he was with one of his own!

“Oh…,” she started.

“There's even a chapter in there on how to belch in a ladylike manner,” he said, with a straight face.
She laughed silently. He wished he would see that on the big screen more.

He said, “Well, …goodbye,” and felt like his heart would stop when she touched his arm and said, “Bye.”

As he walked out he stopped and looked back in through the front window, up on his tiptoes to glance over the blue neon Café sign. The Young Lady was smiling as she carefully turned the pages. The rain had stopped and it was getting dark. The globe streetlights seemed brighter than ever and the sidewalk glistened. He splashed through every puddle he saw.

 

Autumn

Well..I think about her all the time..

And about when we met last Autumn.
Her luminous eyes drowned my sorrow.
We talked...and then we said goodbye.
And she walked away.
And I watched her go.
And..I just naturally started to follow her.
And I started to run.
I caught up with her, and I took her hand.
I looked at her.
And she was laughing.

And I’ll never turn away.

The Face

She rushed towards her ex-lover and drove the knife deep into his chest. The ‘other’ woman was on the floor, already mortally wounded in a pool of blood. The murderess with the horrible and disfigured face stepped back after her attack. There wasn’t any blood! She sensed a stranger lurking in the shadows watching everything silently. The woman with the twisted lip and burned face, the dead woman on the floor, and the man with the knife protruding from his tuxedoed chest were fixed – as like in a photograph. Their eager eyes turned to watch the man in the shadows. The stranger in the dark would now become the focal point of this horrible scene. He stepped out into the light, his face buried in his hands first, then running a hand through his white frizzled hair.

“Unbelievable! No blood? Curses! We’ll shoot this damn scene again tomorrow!”

Everyone laughed. Even the dead woman…..

She felt the cold stone floor of the kitchen against her bare feet. Out of the shower she felt refreshed, her wet hair combed back, wearing a white t shirt and cut-off jeans. The kitchen was her favorite room. The stone floor seemed to remain cool no matter how hot it was outside, and she loved how it felt being barefoot. ‘Barefoot and pregnant’ crossed her mind at times when she worked in the kitchen. Well, maybe later, she thought. But now she was preparing for a small gathering of friends. The Barefoot Hostess. There was a great stage play she thought.

As she fidgeted in the kitchen, she ran her tongue inside her mouth across her upper teeth. Her face was still a bit numb from the remnants of extensive makeup she had worn to twist and disfigure her lovely profile. It took three and a half hours each morning to apply. She laughed silently as she thought of Adrian, the makeup artist, in his broken English as he applied the goo each day.
‘It take mooch time to make de beautee-ful girl to ug-lee girl,’ he would say with a brush in his hand. But, he was a master of his craft. One look at the result each morning in the mirror seemed to put her in the right frame of mind, making her more wicked and ruthless. It tended to make acting easier.

She had seen Ingrid in ‘A Woman’s Face,’ an old Swedish film made just before Bergman was brought to Hollywood and a brilliant career. She admired the courage of the exquisite, lovely, and tall fair-skinned beauty to tackle such a role and she couldn’t take her eyes off of her when she had screened the old film in preparation. To cast off her beauty with the raw ability to act – that is what she admired. Even with the language barrier she could follow the story just from the emotions emitting from Ingrid’s twisted face. She didn’t even bother reading the subtitles. Yes, she thought now, that’s acting! In ‘En Kvinnas Ansikte,’ Ingrid’s character found that although a surgeon could repair her outer being, it was up to her to heal the bitterness and rage from within.

One day recently she had left the set in full makeup, but instead with a sweeter disposition, and went to a café for some soup and a sandwich. She observed how people turned away from her in sheer disgust or stared at her in disbelief. It upset her to tears and she fought back hard trying not to cry. What did she expect? In a way it was a reminder of how some of those around her had abandoned her and turned their backs in her own recent hour of need. She thought ‘the hell with this’ and bolted from her unfinished meal. She ran to her car, her right hand covering the vicious scar. She burned rubber. Her experiment was a flop. ‘You’ll remind them of a village idiot,’ the dead woman told her. She should’ve listened.

Now as she thought of it she chopped the celery with a sharp knife at a furious pace and her eyes glistened. She soon simmered down as she added more to the simmering mixed vegetables on the stove. Friends would join her in the kitchen soon. She reached into the refrigerator and brought out platters of chicken and fruit, set out homemade bread and a jar of applebutter that was sent from that gentle man she had met back east. She smiled thinking of him and would share it with her guests. She heard a car door close and now would have companions dancing in her kitchen…trusting friends who would let her heal in her own time and never turn away…..

 

Crossroads

The Journey

I would gladly walk the distance
Whispering your name as I embark
A single drop of rain from the sky
Would not touch me, but fill silent streams
Leading to the deep well of your heart

Clouds part and burden lifted
Face shining as I approach
Glistening clear eyes greet me
The shade of your skin is like....
Lighter petals of the sulfer rose

Eleven Notes

When you grace the screen almost Garboesque
Incandescent crème face out of the darkness
Non spoken essence larger than life
Of smiles like a warm summer day
No clouds remain from your smile
And the rain chased away by your laugh

Rock and roll. . and you wrapped in a quilt
You’re the dream from Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl
Drifting through life on the gospel of Holden
Embers aglow where you stride, so…..
Rise and dance to Shake Shake, Senora!
 

Natural Light

The photographer snapped off the solitary lamp next to her as she sat comfortably and patiently waiting for the shoot to commence. The man in charge of lighting – his cousin - turned it back on in a huff.

“Leave it on!” he demanded.

“We don’t need it,” the expert argued. “All we need is maybe a little back-lighting. You saw the meter.”

“I did not!,” he said, obviously getting lighter in his loafers as his voice rose. Relations should never work together.

“Well..look here then!,” and he showed yet again the incident-light meter as he moved it closer to her.

It was reading almost off scale – like a Geiger counter in an old 1950’s sci-fi movie. The light guy gasped. He looked wide-eyed at the reading, glanced at the object of reflection sitting there and then back at the meter.

“Ok. So maybe a little back-lighting. No reflectors. No arc lamps. Nothing,” he lisped incredulously walking away. He said something like “SO, she creates her own shadows,” but it was hard to understand with his back turned towards them.

The photographer left too for awhile and returned with a darker shade and turned the lamp back on.
“What the Hell,” he smiled at her. “Now we’re ready. You look beautiful.”

She was beautiful, sitting with legs crossed wearing a crème colored full-length cotton robe tied loosely. She had to rewrap and re-tie it as more and more leg would peek out until finally the photographer told her “leg is good.” He came out from behind his tripod once also to untie her hair in back and, saying ‘pardon me, Mademoiselle,’ ran his fingers through her smooth light tresses. A faint blush came to her face. She felt lighthearted and very happy - and carefree. Afterwards, she was without a care as she went out in a rowboat after the shoot ended.

She was out on the lake by herself, drifting and leaning back with a large white cross-stitched lake hat shading her light face and one leg kicked over the side, and she was re-reading a favorite book. On the shore she could hear children laughing. Some were pleading to venture out onto the lake as well. She wasn’t alone really. She imagined Holden and Phoebe adrift with her, astern and balancing the boat so it would never sway off course or tip over. Now those were relatives that wouldn’t rock the boat, unlike Mr. Lightswitch and Mr. Featherloafer. Holden adored his sis. She held the book briefly against her heart, closed her almond eyes and thought of that. But she didn’t think too hard. It wasn’t like Einstein’s Theory Of Relativity. Something easier on the noodle such as the Theory Of Relatives. She laughed quietly as she thought: “hey, that’s pretty good. Now who would come up with that?” Her mind glided as she made up the silliest names she could imagine. Dr. Herman C. Whalefish. Or Professor Percival R. Klingtonbird, Jr. Or how about Dr. Fritz J. Beakersniffter. Yes, she laughed, Dr. BeakerSniffter’s Theory Of Relatives. She must remember to attend his lecture at the University. She promised herself she would not snore too loudly and upset the good Professor.

She opened her luminous eyes and went back to her beloved story. Peering up and over the edge of the well-worn book she noticed a puffy white cloud up in the sharp blue sky that resembled Minnesota. She set the book gently down by her side, pushed her lake hat back a bit and raised her arm and pointed to where Winona would be. She crossed over to St. Paul and down to Mankato and back to the river town to form the triangle. The Bermuda Triangle - where her life could have been sucked into and swallowed and pulled under. She outlined the triangle again. The Bermuda Triangle was right…about…there…as she floated, wearing her Bermuda shorts and her toes skimming the water. She must ask Dr. BeakerSniffter’s opinion on that too she thought.....

The Rendezvous

It was warm and so perfect after the torrential rains had passed through the previous evening. The winding road surrounded on both sides by the overgrown shady elms stretched onwards up and around a steep climb and fell down into the vale. Along the road at one point a hawk swooped down in front of him almost as if it was an escort. He thought he could almost reach out and touch it. She will love to hear about this, he thought. His bike came to a screeching halt on Main Street diagonally parked in front of The Coffee House. She was there waiting for him sitting by the window at a small table with a light blue checkered tablecloth. She waved and smiled at him.

She was lovelier than a lullaby. Her light skin was the same color as the foam head on her Latte. Her silky shoulder-length hair seemed darker in contrast to her complexion. Her brown eyes glistened joyfully. Her jean jacket was hanging on the back of the wooden chair she was sitting in and she put her cigarette out. He walked in and hugged her but she was the last to let go. It made him feel taller.

They played their little meeting game. “Nice to meet you,” and “Do you come here often?” as they sat opposite each other at the solitary window table. They looked out as the streetlights flickered on and grew bright quickly. An elderly couple holding hands strolled by on the other side of the street. They stopped and peered into the jewelry shop and their faces reflected in the lit window.

“I’m hungry,” he said happily, looking at her once again.

“Me too,” she replied quietly.

“I want one of everything,” he joked looking at the menu upside-down. “And, I want a side order of burnt toast.”

She laughed with her hand covering her mouth. The waitress smiled but she’d heard it a thousand times.

“I love a good joke,” the waitress deadpanned.

Waiting for the food to arrive he relished in the opportunity to talk to her.

“How have…,” he started, but her cell phone rang. Whoever it was did most of the talking. She was attentive and looked concerned. “Uh huh….yes….I see.” He felt his chance slipping away. He was looking down fumbling with the silverware with his right hand. He counted the water spots on the spoon. He thought, I’d rather count the little freckles and moles on her. He looked around the diner and saw an old man that he thought resembled Ernest Hemingway. The waitress was refilling his coffee cup and he smiled his thanks. When she left, the old man with the white beard reached into jacket and pulled out a small shiny flask, unscrewed it quickly and poured twice into the porcelain cup.

He felt her fingertips gently touch his left hand. He looked up and she smiled and then made a funny face and chewed on her tongue. He laughed through his nose.

“I’m hungry,” she said, after putting her phone down.

“I am too.”

“What shall we do later?”

“Whatever you’d like. I’m at your service.” And then, “I’ll go shopping with you.”

“I’d love that,” she said.

“I’ll keep an eye on you,” he said mischievously.

She turned away from him. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked out the window. He’d hurt her feelings. She was silent for a few minutes. He thought, You Bastard, you couldn’t leave it alone, you rotten stinking ignorant peasant, son-of-a-bitch.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, but she slipped farther away it seemed.

“Do you come here often?,” he asked with no response as he began to panic.

“Please know me,” he whispered.

She looked at him after dabbing her eyes. “No harm done,” she said kindly.

“I’m so hungry.”

“Me too,” she said happily.

But they ate in silence. She really didn’t know him.

When they were done they parted.

 

The Actress

It was Sunday, and from my old wooden desk peering out the upstairs office window I could see the tree tops sway a bit in the rain. Most of trees had changed from the chill of October into bright yellows, flaming reds, dull bronze and a mesh of green and orange, and some already stood shivering naked. The ground was saturated from the constant raining so I was glad to be out of the marsh. I was in the mood to write but I was like one of the trees that had lost its leaves - nothing came out of me and I was staring at a fresh white page wrapped in the typewriter. Lost in fragmented thoughts I didn’t see her standing in the doorway.

“Hi, how long have you been there?” I asked.

“About a day and a half.”

She looked heartbreakingly beautiful. She stood there smiling with her hands in her jean pockets and her shoulder length hair, frizzled by the wind and rain, fell lovingly on her white T-shirt. Her unblinking eyes looked bright and intelligent as always.

“Come in and get warm. How are you?”

“I’m fine…leaving for Prague soon.”

“Where?”

“Stare Mesto on the Vltava’s east bank. Cobbled lanes and lush courtyards and old churches stitched across the land. A place where you can stand on a hillside and look far, far away.”

“Sounds wonderful. Can I go?”

“Sure, if you can fit in a suitcase. The coffee smells delicious,” she hinted.

I just had the one mug, so thinking quickly I dumped out a mason jar holding pens and pencils, blew into it to knock out the crap at the bottom, then poured the rest of the mug into it. I filled the mug with fresh java and took it over to the black leather couch where she was sitting.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling and shaking her head as she looked pass me at the jar. “So this is where it all happens.”

“Yes, you heard the old joke. Put a hundred monkeys in a room in front of typewriters and they’ll come up with a masterpiece.”

“You’re the only monkey today,” she laughed. “And a typewriter? Why not a notebook?”

“Not interested. Nothing better than a good ol steel-framed Underwood. I can feel each letter. Plus, there’s not enough power from Scotty down in the engine room to power a pc.”

“A Star Trek fan, heh?”

“No. F Scott Fitzgerald.”

I followed her gaze over my shoulder to the framed torn photo of Hemingway on the wall, delicately holding a black cat to his chest looking down sadly in lost thought. He was probably sad from looking over my shoulder and seeing nothing on my blank page. Next to it on the bookshelf she saw the Oscar.

“Your Oscar?” she inquired.

“Kind of. My mom's uncle was a jeweler employed by the Los Angeles Bronze Foundry in the 20's and 30's. They made the first Oscars. That one was flawed, so they let him take it home. Dated 1929.”

I rose and took it over to her. She cradled it gingerly, almost like a newborn, keeping its head up. She studied it carefully.

“I guess I keep it around for inspiration,” I said, but it never really did. I quickly typed out ‘WINONA RYDER BEST ACTRESS AND FRIEND,’ tore it off and grabbed some scotch tape out of the top drawer and went over and stuck it on the gold man’s base. She laughed.

“Now you have to make a speech,” I insisted.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said mockingly like she was out of breath, her eyelashes fluttering.

“Don’t forget to mention me and the restraining order.”

She rose and returned it to the shelf, the paper plaque coming undone and twirling to the floor. I grabbed it up, crumpled it and was about to toss it away.
“I want that,” she said.

I handed it to her and she smoothed it out, folding it and stuffing it into her left front pocket. She smiled shyly and sat back down. There’s my real inspiration, I thought, sitting in front of me. We both sat quietly for a few moments, the raindrops pelting the window. At one moment it was as though we were in each other’s skin and breathing in rhythm.

“I’d like to share an idea and dream I have,” I finally said.

“Oh?”

“Involving you.”

She grabbed up her coffee again, wrapping both small pale hands around it to get warmer and leaned forward and crossed her feet.
“Tell me, please.”

I settled into my chair and gathered my thoughts so I could be precise. I turned and looked at the raindrops streaking down the window, turned towards her and closed my eyes.

“We’re on a train, streaking along a narrow stream of track through the mist of a mountain divide and heading cross country. On board is an acting troupe…I don’t know...maybe Kate Winslet, Hopkins, Sarandon and Robbins,” and opening my eyes and nodding towards her, “and a certain brown eyed girl.”

“How about Al?” she offered. Her eyes were attentive and she continued to sip her coffee.

“Yes. We must ask Al!”

“We tour the country for about ten months performing three act plays, which I write and direct of course, visiting a few smaller towns too and lavishing a little drama and comedy here and there. A chance for folks to see you up close with a footlight shining on you.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said. “If anything, we’ll shut down any remaining vaudeville houses.”

“Maybe,” I laughed. “If anything, we can eat off the fruit and vegetables they throw at us when we take our bows.”

“That’s a lovely dream though,” she said enthusiastically.

“I thought so.”

After a few silent moments she said, “I must go now.”

‘No,’ I thought. Why do friends always seem to go away when it’s raining?

She rose and walked over to me, ran her delicate hand through my hair, and holding my head in back she gently tilted my head back with her other hand and kissed me.
“Goodbye,” she said softly. I hated it but I loved the way she said it.

I wanted to say goodbye to her in the hallway, at the top of the stair, on the way down the stair, and at the bottom of the stair near the front door. We did not talk on the way down but we did smile at each other once. It was rather an eloquent silence. With one hand holding the umbrella shielding us from the wind and one arm around her waist I was about to say goodbye as we leaned against the car. There were dark clouds above but her eyes shone bright.

“I’ve got something I need to tell you,” I said quietly.

She touched my lips with her fingertips and shook her head.

“You have work to do now,” she said. Then, in a Russian dialect she said haltingly, “Go write. You tell me what to say and I will say it.”

“Bon voyage, Horowitz.”

“Arrivederci, Lorenzo!,” she sang back, now in Italian.

As she pulled out into traffic she honked the horn three times. I think I know what three words she meant.

Ghost
 

She loved her friend Peggy dearly and treasured their daily afternoon rendezvous at the café on the promenade in the oldest section of town where the streets were narrow and crumbling. She looked out the window and noticed a thin sheet of ice covering the green round tables, and the chairs were frozen solid to the ground. Looking at her friend she sensed some deep burden, for her companion’s eyes seemed darker. It was as though her spirit was broken and her nerves were shattered. There appeared to be a deep sadness in her blue eyes and she was pale and looked tired and fragile.

 Winona took two sips of her tea, set her cup down on the saucer and turned it slowly in quiet thought. She reached over and softly touched Peggy’s hand.

“What’s wrong, darling?” she said sympathetically, leaning closer.

Her companion looked away for a minute, fumbled with the silver locket on the chain around her neck, then turned back and looked at Winona’s forehead and then directly into her eyes.

“Do you believe in the supernatural?” she asked at last, her voice quivering.

Winona leaned back and her eyes widened.

“Well…I,” she started.

“I mean..if you saw an apparition…would you be more curious than frightened?”

“Well…”

“You’ve always seemed to me to be strong and open-minded.”

“Yes,” she laughed, “I guess…the human brain can only handle one strong emotion at a time.”

“Please don’t laugh.”

“What’s this all about, Peggy?”

“Will you spend the night at my house…in my bedroom…alone?”

“What have you seen?”

“No…I don’t want to say in advance to prejudice your mind.”

“But…”

“Please…Winona,” she pleaded with her eyes closed.

“Alright. I’ll do it..if it eases any burden upon you.”

The wind was raw as she arrived that evening wearing a long heavy coat and a black hat that she had to hold down at times to keep from blowing away. She carried a small black overnight suitcase with brass trim and an umbrella tucked under her arm. The key was under the front mat as prearranged and inside was a note on the hall table that welcomed her warmly. She had visited many times before and knew her way around the two-story dwelling once owned by Peg’s grandmother. Peggy was staying at her mothers across town. She locked the front door and turned the deadbolt. From the inside the wind outside sounded like the cry of a woman in hopeless grief. She turned and checked the deadbolt once more.

In the upstairs bedroom she pulled the curtains back from the bay window and looked out. The wind was dying down now and the bare trees were swaying gently. The clouds were breaking away at dark and were rolling off to reveal the bright face of the moon. Winona sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. It was a cozy room she thought, but she was all but cozy to say the least. There was a lovely antique dresser with mirror, a cherry curio cabinet in one corner and a well-stocked bookshelf opposite the bed. She was drawn to the curio cabinet by the reflection of the small white marble cross on the top shelf. She reached in and closely admired a glass unicorn and a tiny penguin made of porcelain. On the bedstand was a small lamp with a white-laced shade. Various framed portraits covered the walls, including one of an old man who had an expression like he was asking ‘What the Hell you looking at?’ She smiled and laughed and stuck her tongue out at him.

She decided to sleep in her clothes and just kicked off her shoes and pulled the quilt cover up over her. There were some magazines on the bottom shelf of the bedstand, including one with her on the cover. ‘Peggy has good taste’, she thought. She thumbed through it and surprisingly found that she was dozing off. Despite her adventure into the unknown, every effort to stay awake failed and she dropped the magazine to her side, snapped off the solitary lamp and fell into an easy sleep.

Winona was awakened a few hours later by some sound in the room and a blast of ice-cold air. She raised up slowly and felt for her cell phone, but she forgot to take it out of her coat, which was downstairs in the foyer. She tried to say ‘Who goes there?’ but choked on the words. It took her eyes just a few moments to adjust to the light of the moon streaming in through the opening in the curtains. She heard what sounded like a soft shuffle of footsteps and labored breathing. A figure was definitely moving slowly and it stepped into the light from the moon. She could see it was an old man, hunched over and wearing a cream colored robe. His face was deadly pale and whiskered. He moved along the wall, stopped and inspected items in the curio cabinet carefully, looked in each drawer of the dresser, then moved to the bookshelf and studied each shelf in detail and shook his head dejectedly. Then, he swung around and looked at her with blazing wide eyes, shook his fists and seemed to mouth some words. Winona reached over and grabbed the table lamp, pulled it from the base out of the wall socket and hurled it with a violent crash against the bookshelves. The vision desolved like melting glass….and he was gone.

She remained motionless and her heart raced. Clutching the edge of the quilt, her mouth dry, she tried to regain her composure. The one true strong emotion was fear although she hadn’t counted on it. She stayed awake the rest of the night going over the events and tried to sort it all out. When the darkness faded she inspected the room looking for any evidence of her visitor but found nothing. She cleaned up the remains of the shattered lamp and hurriedly collected her things and left so she could meet again with Peggy.

“Well? Did you see him?,” she asked excitedly as she walked quickly into the café.

“The old man searching?”

“Yes!,” Peggy cried.

“I saw him,” and she recounted the visit in the night.

Peggy fell into the chair, slumped over and buried her face in her hands and began to weep.

“Thank, God, I thought I was going mad!,” she said through her tears.

Winona moved next to her companion and pulled her close and whispered comforting words.

“I will not leave you.” After a few moments she asked, “Who is he and what is he looking for?”

“I don’t know. But, every night, even if I do happen to fall asleep, he shakes me awake and gives me that horrible frown of despair.”

“I have an idea, Peggy”, she said as she softly blew coolness across the top of her coffee cup.

“It came to me about four o’clock. I have this friend….”

The taxi pulled up in front of a gray stone house at the end of a curving country road. The remains of brown ivy creeped wildly on one wall and beyond the house there was a shimmering lake in the bright frosty morning. Two huge men were standing at the gate and they were turned in towards the middle like two turtles trying to shield out the brisk wind.

“Whattya want?” one of them asked, as the girls stepped from the taxi.

“I’m a friend..and I want to see…” Winona began.

“Whoa there, Missy..” one demanded, as he stopped her by grabbing her wrist.

“My name is not Missy!,” she cried, and she turned on her left heel, spun and kicked him in the mid section. He fell back two steps almost in slow motion and dropped like an elephant hit with a tranquilizer.

She wasted no time and reloaded for the second giant. He fell forward towards Peggy, but Winona grabbed her hand and they dodged the falling tree and ran down the path together towards the front door. It was unlocked.

A long dim hallway turned left to a shorter hallway and they stopped in front of double oak doors. Soft Classical music was playing inside. They both swept in quietly and halted. An old woman standing in the shadows near the curtains smiled at them, and her husband followed her gaze and turned to face them from his oversized leather desk chair.

“Hello, Godfather,” the sparkling brown-eyed beauty said sweetly.

He smiled back and gestured with his hand for her to approach.

“This is my friend, Peggy,” she said, nodding towards her.

“Any friend of….” he began to say in a raspy voice. The door burst open and the two whales, panting and wheezing, rushed in. One had a handkerchief at his bloody nose.
“You need to keep that head back,” Winona offered sympathetically. The man behind the desk shook his head disappointedly, shooed them with his hand and the two quickly exited.

Peggy was shaking. It was a bit too much for her and the room began to spin and she fainted.

When she came too she was on the couch, the old woman was bending over her offering sips of brandy to her lips. She gulped it down. Winona had given a detailed account of her adventure to her illustrious friend. He had listened intently with his fingertips pressed together, rising once going to the window and returning.

After two long minutes of silence he motioned Winona closer, and speaking barely above a whisper in Italian, he said:

“You’re chasing ghosts instead of making pictures?”

The movie star shrugged her shoulders.

“A friend in need. You can appreciate that, Godfather,” she said haltingly in his native language.

He nodded in thought. He gently rubbed his face with the back of his hand.

“Do you need…uh…any assistance…in securing a part?”

“Maybe”, she blushed. “grazie, il mio Godfather.”

The eminent man went to the couch and sat down next to the recovered patient.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, Godfather.”

He smiled. “Let me ask you..”

“Yes?”

“When did your visitor first appear?”

“Shortly…the day after…my Grandmother died.”

“Ah..that’s important. You’re in her old bedroom. And you don’t recognize him?”

“No, Godfather.”

“Is he threatening or violent towards you?”

Winona thought of the lamp she threw. She frowned.

“No, not really” Peggy replied, fumbling with the silver chain around her neck.

“May I see that?” He was gazing at the lump under Peggy’s sweater.

She pulled out the locket. He handled it gingerly and inspected it closely.

“Little doe..top drawer..on the left…bring me the glass,” he motioned looking over his shoulder.

He scanned across the locket with the magnifying glass, then Peggy reached over and pressed the top and it opened. He inspected the two old miniature portraits of her Grandparents inside.

“Your Grandmother’s locket?”

“Yes. She gave it to me. I always wear it. But, strange..,” she thought for a moment, “now I remember how on her death bed, when I visited, she seemed to be reaching for it.”

“These initials engraved..A.C?”

“I’ve never seen those, Godfather.”

He handed her the glass and she looked closely and shook her head.

“Who is A.C?” she wondered aloud. She saw the answer in Godfather’s expression towards his wife standing behind the couch.

He rose and slowly waved his finger back and forth.

“There is no compromise…for the darkness in men’s souls. You must offer him this keepsake.”

The veil of darkness was lifting. She didn’t know whether to weep or to laugh. She bloomed like crocuses bursting through the snow.

“How can I repay you, Godfather?”

He started with his usual response as to any favor, then recanted. He walked slowly over to Winona and kissed her gently on the lips. She kissed both his cheeks and hugged him.

“Arrivederci, Godfather.”

“You will let me stay with you tonight?,” Winona asked, as they got out of the taxi in front of Peggy’s house.

“No. I’ve put you through enough,” she said, as she looked up at the second floor window.

“I don’t mind. Really,” she insisted.

“Ok,” she said, welcoming the camaraderie.

Peggy unpacked and was admiring the new frost-shaded glass lamp that Winona bought at The Antique Shoppe as the two were preparing for their sojourner. Winona had the precious locket and bit her lip as she determined the best place to leave it.

“In the cabinet, Peggy?”

“Yes, darling…he always goes there first…we don’t want him suffering any more than we have to.”

Sleet pelted the window as they sat up under the covers in the dark. Candles were burning throughout the room and around two o’clock a chill swept through blowing a few of them out. Peggy reached over and turned the lamp on. A shadowed outline of a man appeared at the window, and within a few moments formed into as solid a figure as a living being. The girls drew the quilt up under their chins and moved closer to each other. He stopped at the curio cabinet and began inspecting its contents as before. Taking out the silver locket he examined it eagerly, then turned and smiled at Peggy. Opening the locket he took out one portrait and threw it to the ground and replaced it carefully with another. He closed the locket, kissed it and replaced it in the cabinet.

Turning once more he clasped his hands together, tilted his head and smiled, and bowed slowly and deeply at the girls and then vanished.

They both rushed over and took out the locket and looked inside. The new portrait was a younger version of the nighttime visitor.

“He’s just a boy!”, Winona exclaimed.

“He was awfully handsome,” Peggy replied, and she closed the locket and held it to close to her chest like a gift she never expected.

“Now the lovers are together again,” Winona said softly.

The morning was bright and so again were Peggy’s eyes. The two exchanged kisses and parted. Winona pulled her hat down on her head and walked down the red brick sidewalk. She turned the corner and it began to snow. She smiled and held out her right hand to let a silver dollar size snowflake land in her palm. She watched it melt and disappear like her visitor in the night.

Famous Last Words
 

It’s late at night as I write this. Everyone is catching a few hours of precious sleep. Major revisions are needed, so I’m up late working on those. Plus, we’ve had a tragedy played out off stage. I’ll tell you about that later. Our train trip across country has gone well. We’ve encountered friendly townsfolk and responsive audiences in the three weeks since heading out from New York. I will not tell you about the nasty tomato-throwing incident in the unnamed town again. I guess you just can’t please some people. Our date at The Civic Theatre in Bellfontaine, Ohio went splendidly last night. There was one moment though, when a dude’s annoying cell phone kept ringing, and Pacino, yes, Mr. Intensity, calmly turned and said ‘You wanna get that. I can wait.’ It was funny as hell and the audience loved it. Then, at curtain call, flowers were thrown onstage at the girls. I love seeing that. Mostly because they don’t splatter as much.

During rehearsal yesterday morning I was backstage at The Civic and noticed some steps winding up and above. I was curious so I climbed them. Half way up there was a door to the left that opened to a straight plunge to the street below. The architect really botched that bad boy. Imagine a fire escape at the edge of a cliff. Right out of a Roadrunner cartoon. At the top of the stairs was another doorway leading to the catwalk with a great view not only of the stage below but the seats out front. I thought of the scene in Little Women where Winona turns and smiles at Gabriel Byrne. I decided that’s where I was going to be that evening to smile down on her.

It was an extraordinary night. When I got up in the loft there was an old guy also up there with gray colored skin smoking a pipe that reeked of burnt chicken feathers or some other horrible herb. I took him to be in charge of lighting but he leaned on the bannister and didn’t move a muscle the whole evening. Yep, a Teamster.

Anyway, the view was tremendous. I saw impatient children sliding down their mother’s laps, a couple necking (Ninth row, fourth from the left. Amazing), and I discovered something that I’d only until then had a notion of: Despite names like Pacino, Hopkins, Robbins, Sarandon, and Winslet, it was, you guessed it, Winona that people came out to really watch. How could I tell you ask? I was watching the audience. When Winona spoke they leaned forward, in unison, seemingly grasping every word. When she glided back and forth across stage it was like at a tennis match. Two fat ladies in print dresses planted in the front row clutched their programs tighter when she spoke. Especially during the death scene.

Winona was sitting on the couch, cradling Kate’s head in her arms, and looking down I could see right down Kate’s dress as she passed away. What a sight! I knew I had her in that costume for a reason. What magnificent orbs. She’s no fool though. After she was stone dead and Winona lowered her head softly to the pillow, she winked at me and smiled as I peered down.

Actors and death scenes. What is it about death scenes? That was the only way I could convince Winslet to join our troupe was to promise one. During our trip each of them has approached me to write one. What am I supposed to do? Kill them all off and then come out on stage at the end and say ‘Ok, folks, show’s over. Go home’? Well, there’s two less to worry about now. Robbins and Sarandon have left because of a family crisis, so that’s why I’m up late revising like mad. There’s consensus among The Company that I should try to contact and convince Cate Blanchett to join us. Well, I tried, but there wasn’t any interest. Should I call her back and promise her a Death Scene?

Maybe we long to hear the most eloquent and beautiful words from those who are at death’s door. It is said that Confederate General Stonewall Jackson’s last words were ‘Let us cross over the river and sit under the shade of the trees.’ Or maybe something defiant like American Revolution leader Ethan Allen’s response to waiting angels:

‘Waiting are they? Waiting are they? Well--let 'em wait.’

Actors. I love these people to death, truly, but I’d wish their egos would get all dressed early one morning and jump in front of this train like Garbo in Camille. Splatsville.

Dear Reader, the final act ended horribly tonight. We were standing on the platform at sunset shaking hands and bidding our last adieus to Mayor Soderland and assorted dignitaries, when I felt a nudge on my left arm. I turned and it was Winona pointing away from the station, out to the country beyond and she cried, ‘Look!’

Before I could focus on it she was on her way running across the snow covered field. I dashed out after her, easily catching up, my feet crunching through the thin layer of ice blanketing the snow. Through the trees up a snowy climb I saw a deer was caught in the barbed-wire fence. How Winona ever saw this from the train platform I’ll never know. She must've still had Dinky Bossetti in her veins.

The sky was changing to black and blue and two stars were shining in the East. There was no wind, yet it seemed the trees were shivering. The air was clean out there. I could see the flickering lights of the city, and hear the wheels of giants whining on the concrete highways off in the distance. I could see the crimson pool in the moonlit snow.

“Is it dead?” she asked, out of breath.

“Not yet,” I answered, choosing the wrong words.

Winona stood about five feet behind me, bent down, and spoke softly to it like it was a little kitten in her arms. I anchored myself by stomping both feet into the snow, reaching down not really knowing where to start. It watched me the entire time. I remember now a flurry of thoughts. How the closest I’d been to any deer was a cast iron deer grazing on a lawn I worked on during a summer job in college; seeing three breaths in the frosty night and then the stillness and then only two breaths; seeing that angry ‘No Trespass’ sign on the thorny fence of death; how Winona just turned and walked away when it was over; me walking back slowly, guided by stepping into the small delicate footprints of the woman I was in love with.

After washing the blood off my hands and changing into jeans and a heavy sweater I walked into the dining car. Everyone turned and looked at me. It was silent and awkward until someone said to someone else ‘It sure is cold tonight.’ Winona was sitting by herself at a window seat smoking. She was still in her heavy black wool coat, her hair combed back into a ponytail, her skin pale but lovely. She’d been crying. I went over to her, knelt down, and looked into her big brown unblinking eyes. I didn’t know what to say. She flicked her cigarette butt against the window. It bounced back and I stood and twisted it under my shoe into tiny bits.

“I hate fences,” she said at last, under her breath.

I nodded and looked away. That must’ve been the sweet creatures’ last thought too.

She took my hand in hers and caressed it gently.

Midnight Blue

She sat alone on the bed in the darkened Blue Hotel room just before midnight. Dark, except for the flickering light from the television. Her legs were drawn up and she rested her chin on her knees as she fingered a tear in the knee of her bluejeans.  The last of the ceremonies were playing out. She thought of the costumed Nicole, Renee, and Charlize as her older sisters lucky to go to the ball whereas she was poor Cinderella left behind. She’d been there, done that and missed it – but tried not to dwell on the past. The train trip was a resounding success. She mostly enjoyed the part where she got to be the villian, the murderous, stalking and grimacing and breathing fire. On stage she enjoyed going ‘over the top,’ but now it was time to tone it down for the screen. There was also some talk of a train trip next year, but through Europe. France, Germany, Switzerland….racing by out her window. Her suitcases were packed and sitting by the dresser as she was ready to head out of America in the morning. This time tomorrow she would be in Sweden, at Vaestervik on the coast opposite the island Öland, letting a lonely camera soak up the light from her illuminative face. She would once again return to her garden and the perennials would flourish – Winona And The Secret Planting. She glanced over at the suitcases, packed with everything but her troubles, and tried to remember if everything was there she would need.

‘Ah, cigarettes,’ she remembered.

She stepped out into the cold night in a light misty rain to get some cigarettes and to take one last look at the city. At the corner she turned back and looked at the lighted silhouette of the hotel. It looked romantic with glistening lights in the windows and reflected streaks shining on the wet brick half-circle path in front.

Passing buy a fruit and vegetable market locked snuggly behind a padlocked black cross-ironed gate on wheels, and a small below-the-street pub called The 39 Steps, with a neon target in the window that got bigger then disappeared, she turned one more corner. Light flooded out of The Spitfire Grill, a twenty four-hour breakfast house. Stopping at the window she waved to Maggie behind the counter. Maggie lifted her hairnet-stapled head, smiled, and waved back. From the outside she could smell the bacon sizzling and see the scrambled eggs steaming. In back of the counter she could see the huge stainless-steel coffee container and a tray of clean white heavy porcelain cups. She was already looking forward to the new day.

Past a large alleyway that had a confusing old rotted sign that read Enter The Chiropractic Offices Of  blended into another that read, Bob’s Power Tools, she stepped inside a 24 hour grocery. She noticed two little girls, probably four and five years old, holding hands as they helped their mother shopping. The littlest one was carrying a red basket.

“Where’s your basket?” the little sleepy one asked.

“I’m not old enough to carry one by myself, love,” Winona replied stooping down to eye level.

The little one giggled as her sister tugged her along. She looked over her shoulder and waved to the dark-eyed Angel that was so kind to her.  Winona, still kneeling down, closed her eyes and imagined coming home and being greeted by two little ones shrieking with delight and jumping on her falling to the ground.

Heading outside the mist turned into a sudden hard driving rain. The kind of rain that moves sideways and can send chills through you no matter how you’re covered. She closed her coat tighter by her neck and cradled her bag a bit tighter. She surrendered to the torrential rain quickly and dove undercover and down the dark steps into the pub. It was empty except for two – the bartender and a man wearing a ten-gallon hat sitting at the far stool.

“I’m just waiting for that to die down,” she said, her eyes trying to adjust to the dim smoky light.

The bartender waved her over and motioned to a seat. The man in the hat hid behind the brim and continued to sulk. She sat down and ran her hand through her long messed hair.

“Terrible night,” the bartender said shaking his head. He seemed to be a gentle giant to her. His hair was slicked back and his beard was neatly trimmed.

“Terrible night,” the man in the hat echoed.

“I’m Charlie,” the bartender said. “That’s Ernie.”

“I’m Ernie,” from the echo, repeating like a parakeet.

After a moment of awkward silence she asked, “May I smoke.”

Charlie nodded and pushed the ashtray closer. She took a deep draw like it was an essential element of life.

They both watched the smoke rise up to the ceiling.

“I’ll have something light, please,” she said. Ernie looked up from under his hat and went back under.

“A light beer for the lady, Char-lie.”

“A light for the lady.”

“That peculiar sign I saw in the alley…power tool therapy?,” she laughed.

“Yeah,” Charlie said, “nothing like a heavy-duty nailing-gun to fix a backache.”

“Nails in the back!,” Ernie chuckled.

After a pause, “So, whaddya do for a living?” Charlie asked.

“Let’s just say…I’m an entertainer.”

“Ya any good?” Ernie looked up, half-interested.

Winona put her cigarette out, stood up, grabbed the ashtray, cigarette pack, beer bottle, balanced the stool on her head, and juggled all in one swooping motion.
Ernie gave her a standing ovation.

“That was good!” Charlie said, impressed.

“Thanks,” she replied quietly. But she almost stopped breathing, surprised she got through it.

“Nice place you have here.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said. “It’s been here since the 1930’s. Used to have a studio and dance hall above. Not anymore.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Old Blackie owned it back then.”

“Blackie?”

He looked past her and nodded. She turned and looked and saw an old black man leaning on a broom. He smiled a rotted tooth smile and on his moving closer she could see he was wearing a dark green jumpsuit. He stepped closer and she could see his grey and white whiskered face.

“Yes’m, I ran it from then ‘til 1965,” he said as he gazed around the room and nodded each word.

“Over thirty years,” Winona said thoughtfully.

“Thirty-two years,” Ernie said. Charlie looked at Winona, smiled and winked.

“Thirty-three to be exact, Mister Ernie,” Blackie corrected.

“Must’ve seen it all,” she said, playing along.

“Yes’m. You’d never believe what I saw up there,” he said, pointing straight overhead.

“What did you see, Blackie?,” she inquired.

“Muddy Waters teachin’ Marilyn Monroe to sing the Blues.”

“No!”

“Yes’m. Back in ’61. I was up in the hallway and when I walked by the door of the studio it was open and theys sitting on the edge of chairs facing one another, he was singing with her, 'You Can’t Lose What You Ain’t Never Had,' and I heard Muddy say ‘No no no..you gotta punctuate it..punk-chew-wait it!’”

“Really?”

“Yes’m. And you wanna know somethin’?”

“What, Blackie?”

The old man turned away for a bit. When he faced her again she saw his eyes were flooded with tears.

“That poor girl was dead the next summer.”

She looked at Charlie and he shook his head sadly studying a glass he was wiping clean. Ernie dipped under his hat. It was quiet and still except for the motion of the ceiling fan. As Blackie walked away pushing the broom she heard a broken and fading ‘that poor girl.’

***

She awoke with a start at 7:32 the next morning without an alarm. The window was open and the curtains rocked softly. The room was cold. She had slept in her clothes and she was wrapped in a quilt she found in the dresser’s bottom drawer. Her heart was racing and she had a sensation to flee her surroundings. Slipping on her shoes she hurried out of the room down the stairs and outside. Light was coming up from the ground. She was illuminated and happy! It was a happiness that she never expected and never experienced before, and frankly, was not really entitled to. But she deserved it.

Every Time It Rains

It was Sunday, and from my old wooden desk peering out the upstairs office window I could see the tree tops sway a bit in the rain. Most of trees had changed from the chill of October into bright yellows, flaming reds, dull bronze and a mesh of green and orange, and some already stood shivering naked. The ground was saturated from the constant raining so I was glad to be out of the marsh. I was in the mood to write but I was like one of the trees that had lost its leaves - nothing came out of me and I was staring at a fresh white page wrapped in the typewriter. Lost in fragmented thoughts I didn’t see her standing in the doorway.

“Hi, how long have you been there?” I asked.

“About a day and a half.”

She looked heartbreakingly beautiful. She stood there smiling with her hands in her jean pockets and her shoulder length hair, frizzled by the wind and rain, fell lovingly on her white T-shirt. Her unblinking eyes looked bright and intelligent as always.

“Come in and get warm. How are you?”

“I’m fine…leaving for Prague soon.”

“Where?”

“Stare Mesto on the Vltava’s east bank. Cobbled lanes and lush courtyards and old churches stitched across the land. A place where you can stand on a hillside and look far, far away.”

“Sounds wonderful. Can I go?”

“Sure, if you can fit in a suitcase. The coffee smells delicious,” she hinted.

I just had the one mug, so thinking quickly I dumped out a mason jar holding pens and pencils, blew into it to knock out the crap at the bottom, then poured the rest of the mug into it. I filled the mug with fresh java and took it over to the black leather couch where she was sitting.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling and shaking her head as she looked pass me at the jar. “So this is where it all happens.”

“Yes, you heard the old joke. Put a hundred monkeys in a room in front of typewriters and they’ll come up with a masterpiece.”

“You’re the only monkey today,” she laughed. “And a typewriter? Why not a notebook?”

“Not interested. Nothing better than a good ol steel-framed Underwood. I can feel each letter. Plus, there’s not enough power from Scotty down in the engine room to power a pc.”

“A Star Trek fan, heh?”

“No. F Scott Fitzgerald.”

I followed her gaze over my shoulder to the framed torn photo of Hemingway on the wall, delicately holding a black cat to his chest looking down sadly in lost thought. He was probably sad from looking over my shoulder and seeing nothing on my blank page. Next to it on the bookshelf she saw the Oscar.

“Your Oscar?” she inquired.

“Kind of. My mom's uncle was a jeweler employed by the Los Angeles Bronze Foundry in the 20's and 30's. They made the first Oscars. That one was flawed, so they let him take it home. Dated 1929.”

I rose and took it over to her. She cradled it gingerly, almost like a newborn, keeping its head up. She studied it carefully.

“I guess I keep it around for inspiration,” I said, but it never really did. I quickly typed out ‘WINONA RYDER BEST ACTRESS AND FRIEND,’ tore it off and grabbed some scotch tape out of the top drawer and went over and stuck it on the gold man’s base. She laughed.

“Now you have to make a speech,” I insisted.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said mockingly like she was out of breath, her eyelashes fluttering.

“Don’t forget to mention me and the restraining order.”

She rose and returned it to the shelf, the paper plaque coming undone and twirling to the floor. I grabbed it up, crumpled it and was about to toss it away.

“I want that,” she said.

I handed it to her and she smoothed it out, folding it and stuffing it into her left front pocket. She smiled shyly and sat back down. There’s my real inspiration, I thought, sitting in front of me. We both sat quietly for a few moments, the raindrops pelting the window. At one moment it was as though we were in each other’s skin and breathing in rhythm.

“I’d like to share an idea and dream I have,” I finally said.

“Oh?”

“Involving you.”

She grabbed up her coffee again, wrapping both small pale hands around it to get warmer and leaned forward and crossed her feet.

“Tell me, please.”

I settled into my chair and gathered my thoughts so I could be precise. I turned and looked at the raindrops streaking down the window, turned towards her and closed my eyes.

“We’re on a train, streaking along a narrow stream of track through the mist of a mountain divide and heading cross country. On board is an acting troupe…I don’t know...maybe Kate Winslet, Hopkins, Sarandon and Robbins,” and opening my eyes and nodding towards her, “and a certain brown eyed girl.”

“How about Al?” she offered. Her eyes were attentive and she continued to sip her coffee.

“Yes. We must ask Al!”

“We tour the country for about ten months performing three act plays, which I write and direct of course, visiting a few smaller towns too and lavishing a little drama and comedy here and there. A chance for folks to see you up close with a footlight shining on you.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said. “If anything, we’ll shut down any remaining vaudeville houses.”

“Maybe,” I laughed. “If anything, we can eat off the fruit and vegetables they throw at us when we take our bows.”

“That’s a lovely dream though,” she said enthusiastically.

“I thought so.”

After a few silent moments she said, “I must go now.”

‘No,’ I thought. Why do friends always seem to go away when it’s raining?

She rose and walked over to me, ran her delicate hand through my hair, and holding my head in back she gently tilted my head back with her other hand and kissed me.
“Goodbye,” she said softly. I hated it but I loved the way she said it.

I wanted to say goodbye to her in the hallway, at the top of the stair, on the way down the stair, and at the bottom of the stair near the front door. We did not talk on the way down but we did smile at each other once. It was rather an eloquent silence. With one hand holding the umbrella shielding us from the wind and one arm around her waist I was about to say goodbye as we leaned against the car. There were dark clouds above but her eyes shone bright.

“I’ve got something I need to tell you,” I said quietly.

She touched my lips with her fingertips and shook her head.  “You have work to do now,” she said. Then, in a Russian dialect she said haltingly, “Go write. You tell me what to say and I will say it.”

“Bon voyage, Horowitz.”

“Arrivederci, Lorenzo!,” she sang back, now in Italian.

As she pulled out into traffic she honked the horn three times. I think I know what three words she meant.

Day and Night On Earth

Hey. Remember the last time you were lonely and sad and you called her? When you drove up the winding road to the path to her doorstep, honked your horn twice and she came out and hopped in next to you, smiled and kissed your cheek? Remember how she smelled? An aura of mimosa and you took a deep breath and her scent reminded you of a walk in the woods along a hidden path on the first day of Spring just after sunrise following an evening of torrential rain?

Remember how she was dressed? Those new bluejeans and a white shirt, it’s collar peeking out from underneath a black pullover sweater under a heavy black button-up cardigan? That black hat pulled down to where the tops of her silver earrings shined? Her dark glasses at the ready? How all of the dark clothes made her pale skin appear the color of the lighter pedals of a sulfer rose?

As you drove away, you asked her to tell you the story of the photo of her kissing B.M., and when she recited it and the real reason she did it, remember how you both laughed ‘til there were tears in your eyes? But after a moment of silence her mood darkened and she told you about those small children with no hair or eyebrows? And as you listened you gripped the steering wheel tighter until your knuckles were white? Then there was the awkward silence as you sat at that red light until the right rear tire of that car in front of you exploded? And the two of you looked at each other and dissolved in laughter again?

When she took her hat off in the shoe store and ran her fingers carelessly and quickly through her hair remember how beautiful she looked? How you thought at one time her dark eyes were her loveliest feature ‘til you saw her hair again? When she was trying on those stiff high heels and lost her balance and you caught her as she fell, remember how her soft hair felt against your cheek?

Afterwards, remember when you went to the Spitfire Grill and the place was packed and you made fun of her ‘cause she ordered just enough to feed a bird? She had fresh fish and a toasted cheese sandwich to nibble on; you had barbecue ribs, candied yams, a heaping of potato salad, and Polish peppers. Yet, she got the biggest laugh when she said your plate was so heavy it made the table lean to one side and you got down to table level to eyeball it and it seemed everyone in the joint laughed as they watched you? Remember she said you were blushing beet-red and after that it was so quiet the only sound you could hear was people chewing? And, that nervous waiter with the coke bottle bottom glasses that took your order. After he stood there with his feet parted at 10 and 2 o’clock, how the two of you knew you’d always get a laugh about ‘Ol’ 10 ‘n 2’?’

When you left the diner and were strolling on the brick path that lead back to your car, remember how she suddenly stopped in her tracks and threw her left arm in front of you to stop? Like a doe she turned her head like she sensed danger coming downwind?

“Hyenas,” she said in disgust, her voice lowering.

The two of you were in the crosshairs of the razzis. She nodded her head towards two black SUVs in crossfire mode. And you knew what she meant. Remember how you almost mentioned to her that you’d read how Hemingway, while on the hunt in Africa, had seen a hyena hit and as it spun in it’s tracks towards death it started to chomp away at it’s own intestines? But, you thought, she already knew what these animals were like. And when she wrote that note on the back of a piece of scrap paper that she pulled out of a trash can - she gave it to you to deliver it to one of the hunters, remember how your heart was pounding in excitement when she gave you instructions and you didn’t want to fail her? You went over to one of the SUVs and tapped so hard against the tinted window you thought the ring on your finger would shatter the glass? At least you’d hoped it would? Remember the rancid smell of pot as the window slowly lowered and the look on the driver’s face when he opened the note and read:

And you ran quick as you could back to her and she took your hand in hers and you were both running and laughing? And you were glad she wasn’t wearing those new high heels or you would’ve never made it? How she seemed to know every alleyway and shortcut that got you safely back to your car? Oh, how your heart was racing! And then the two of you escaped to the park and sat at that bench where you both just talked and talked and talked…..?

**

In the evening, remember lying in bed wide-awake with your head resting on your hand as the events of the day raced by like a runaway train? The cool breeze through the window made the drapes roll in soft waves and your cat leapt off the edge of the balcony to the dresser then on to your bed? How your stealth companion with one foot in the grave landed on the remote and the tv lit up and Holy s**t! Reality Bites is on and there she is in all her glory? That smile! You closed your eyes imagining her beside you as your bed floats down stream. And the cares of the day and your loneliness had vanished and you’re so happy, like all your internal organs had joined hands and were dancing? What a woman she is! The key to your happiness couldn’t be more obvious. Remember?

I do.

The Daughter

(1) The Travelers

She loved the bay area and was happy to return for a long weekend visit. For one thing, the illuminating lights on the bridge at night in the distance never failed to excite her. Sometimes, she would just stand perfectly still up on the flat roof of her mother’s house and gaze at it. The view of the bridge, coupled with the golden horizon of twinkling lights over the surrounding landscape, was a thrill to come home to. She looked forward to the sight in the mornings as well. Sometimes, a white fog bank hundreds of feet high would swallow the Gate, only to burn away and release it from its misty clench to reveal two glorious towers.

They got an early start in the morning.
“Are you about done, Winona?” her father asked, in his quiet philosopher’s voice.
He pushed his coffee cup slowly towards the middle of the table and nudged his wife playfully to let him out from the booth.

“Yes..let me just..” She took one last sip of cold coffee. “Let me get the tip at least,” she offered quietly but firmly. Her voice was a sweet, soft, mid-western melody. Two girls in the next booth smiled at her, and she smiled in return. One of them, a fresh faced brown-eyed beauty named Doris, whispered something in broken english to her companion, Katie, a pretty latino with soft brown eyes and jet black silky hair. She gestured as she responded in Spanish, but it was clear in any language what was implied. They were able to get an autograph each on a t shirt and a napkin before The Enchanted slipped out the door.
 

(2) This Guy

Her father remained in the car as the two women went in to buy flowers at The Sweet Smell of Success flower shop. The young man behind the counter with a nametag that read ‘Carl’ recognized Winona. That face! and those eyes! He thought she looked so lovely in her tight faded blue jeans, seemingly held in place by one brass button, black t-shirt and silver headband. The way the headband pulled her long hair back and away from her face and neck exposing a complexion that beckoned the touch of Man. Her lips looked extraordinarily kissable. Yet, he thought, kissing her would be like smudging the Mona Lisa.

“I love…loved you…you blew me away in Girl, Interrupted,” he said. He chose his words carefully.

“Thanks,” she said shyly, looking him in the eyes.

He appreciated her looking him in the eyes. He would dream of those large brown eyes later, awake and asleep. And, he would remember how she acted like she didn’t expect to be recognized. He helped carry the basket full of assorted blossoms to their car as if it was a forty-pound bag of rock salt. After she climbed into the back seat, he handed her the basket gingerly as if it was a vial of nitroglycerin. When they drove away he could not remember how he got outside. Back inside he sketched the shape of her face in the dust on the workbench in the greenhouse. The next day, using a chewed pencil, he would sketch her profile on the company pad with the company letterhead on top. Two days later he would lose his job for ignoring customers as he brought poster board and colored markers to work and drew her face. Three days later, carrying a portfolio of his sketches, he would cross a street thinking of her and not paying attention he would be run over and crushed by a bus. The by-line on page three in the Chronicle the next day would read:

MAN HIT BY BUS, DIES IN STREET

Artwork of Woman’s Face Scattered in Street. “He was a Quiet Man,” Landlady Says, “ and He Loved Flowers.”
 

(3) Blossom

The drive up towards the cemetery on West Grove Road was pleasant. Her father didn't say much and pretty much just fumbled with the toothpick in the corner of his mouth as he drove. It had rained the night before, the first rainstorm in three months, but now it was a bright, clear, day with not a cloud in the sky. The wild flowers and heather scattered along the way glistened. Everything seemed so much more alive. Winona, sitting in back behind her father, lowered the window. She loved the smell after the rain and she heard a meadowlark singing.

She looked forward to visiting her grandmother, and also visiting one of the most influential men in her life. But her father seemed tense as he drove, leaning forward and gripping the steering wheel tight until his knuckles were white. Visiting people six feet under wasn’t his idea of a grand time. Winona reached over the seat and placed her hand on his right shoulder. He relaxed, let out a deep breath, and settled back into his seat. He adjusted the rear view mirror for a moment and smiled back at her. Her mother turned and looked back at her beautiful daughter. With the wicker basket of flowers in her lap and wearing just a faint stroke of makeup she thought Winona looked like an intense spiritual Minimalist portrait by Redon: Perhaps with the title Winona With Bouquet.

“What?”

“Nothing,” her mother smiled.

(4) The Dead

Beyond a wall of giant oak trees a gravel road led to the entrance of the green open field of silence. Her parents took an armload of flowers each and began their rounds as Winona tended to her grandmother. Weeds had started to pop up around the edge of her marker, and she squatted down at first, then dropped to her knees and manicured it slowly and carefully. The previous night's rain made it easy to remove the unwanted growth. She felt the warmth of the Sun on her back as her shadow moved like an eclipse across the grave. A sage sparrow swept in and landed on the headstone, tilted its head and looked Winona right in the eyes.

“Are you the concierge?” she asked, not moving a muscle.

‘Why, yes…yes I am, Beloved’ the sparrow thought. ‘You bring fresh cut flowers instead of those phony, fake, cold plastic, un-loving, wax-tasting flowers that everyone else seems to bring. Pirate bugs will tunnel out from below and make a bee-line for those flowers and we shall return to feast on those tasty morsels.’ It fluttered away.

Pulling the bronze vase out and setting it on its base she filled it with purple and white irises, and pale pink roses signifying grace and joy. She had adored her grandmother and she was flooded with fond memories, but the one that was vivid was her advice on shyness.

‘Just fake it, dear!,’ she would whisper into the young girls ear.

Twenty minutes later her parents returned. They were in a heightened state of excitement and out of breath.

"Winona...you're not gonna believe it!"

"What?...slow down...catch your breath!"

They sat on a stone bench nearby. Winona brushed off her dirty jeans and joined them. The stone bench was cold.

"Well...when we were over by Timothy,” her father started, then looking at his wife, “We heard laughing!"

"Oh!..."

"No, really, I know it sounds strange, but it is true!"

"Has to be the wind in the trees," she offered, her right eye slowly winking.

"There are no trees near there!" her mother said breathlessly.

"Let's go...I want to see."


(5) Space

If visiting her grandmother stirred a flood of memories, walking towards Timothy’s resting place created a tidal wave. He had died in her arms and was so unashamed in his acceptance of death. She was thinking how he still lived in the crevices of her heart and she felt his spirit and strength in all ways. Yet, as the sun dove behind a roll of angry clouds and the wind kicked up, she was feeling a bit unnerved at this new development.

Following a narrow path surrounded by tall pampas grass and purple clover to a small clearing near the lone stream, the three of them stood motionless at the singular grave of her godfather. It was perfectly still and silent. No trees, just a soft sound of the turquoise water passing through the rocky stream nearby.

"Dad, I don't hear...."

"...shhhh!.....listen!"

But, still nothing. Unexpectedly, her forehead creased and she began to weep softly. She wanted to hear. Winona knelt down and with one wide sweep cleared the loose brush away to read:

Having Great Time
Forever Laughing
Timothy Leary
1920-1996

She blanketed his grave with the rest of the cut flowers. She turned and walked away. Standing on the moon on the southwestern edge of the bright and dazzling crater Aristarchus, her godfather looked down at the silver sand in-between his toes and laughed again. Her parents caught up and passed Winona as they ran to the car. Although she didn’t see them, a thousand sparrows were in the trees as they drove slowly out the entrance. They hoped she would visit again soon and one of the sparrows left a little tribute on the windshield.
 

(6) Home

Waves rolled and crashed silently at the bay’s edge. Up the street, past the dark and silent houses, a single light shone in an upstairs bedroom window of her mother’s house. A small blue vase near a miniature yellow glowing table lamp sprouted one fresh fragrant red rose. Her father put it there and rotated the vase for full effect. She’ll like it like that he thought. He turned and saw the mahogany framed photo of his mother on the wall. She was about Winona’s age in the picture, and she was smiling at her son.

Her hair still wet, Winona sat on the edge of the bed fresh out of the shower wearing only a crème-colored robe. She shuddered at the repulsive chocolate brown pajamas with smiling yellow teddy bears her mother had laid out for her on the bed. A water droplet fell from a strand of her wayward hair and slid down past two moles of her birthday suit to the inside of her right breast and she dabbed it with the robe. Reaching down and searching for her slippers under the bed she found an old pink shoebox. Reclining on her bed now she looked inside. She laughed and shook her head when she saw photos of herself at sweet sixteen. It reminded her of the times when she was alone on the very same bed in the very same room and dreamed of all the things she wanted in life. She looked around the room and thought that it looked smaller than she had remembered.

Her mother would suddenly appear at the door.

“Goodnight, honey.”

“Sweet dreams.”

A few moments later she returned.

“There’s always a place here for you,” her mother said quietly.

“Oh, mom.”

“And..Winona?”

“Yes?”

She walked over to her daughter. “Do something with this hair,” she said, as she pinched some moisture out of a couple strands with her thumb and first finger.

In a little while, down towards the bottom of the mess of photos, she found a picture of him. She heard laughing in her heartbeat, in a rhythm like an old boyfriend’s guitar. She promised herself she would not cry.

Corky

I walked out of the airport into the blazing California sun, and the heat nearly knocked me over. One lonesome cloud attempted to block the fireball in the sky. Three hours late, my white shirt darkening quickly with sweat, and there were no taxis available out on the skybridge. Or so I thought.

At the far end of the skybridge, at a curve in the shade, a taxi driver with long dark hair under a ball cap and oversized sunglasses came out from behind the raised hood of a yellow and blue taxi and waved to me. When I waved back, as an automatic response of sorts, he slammed the hood jumped into a station wagon and kicked it into reverse, squealing the tires and beelining it right towards my knee caps. He landed both front and rear two inches from the curb on a dime, so my legs lived to see another day. But I’d lost my balance dodging the shadow of the taxi and landed on the luggage carrier. The driver had quickly arrived and was peering over me. He raised his sunglasses.

“Need a cab?”

“Hey,” I said, as I sheepishly brushed my pants, “you’re not a dude!”

“No kidding, Nim,” she deadpanned. She hustled my suitcase into the back and we were away. She lowered her glasses and lit a Lucky Strike. I told her the destination and she nodded. I inquired about the car smelling hot.

“Yah. Small problem. No problem. No sweat,you know” she said through rising smoke. I cracked a window as it drifted back. “We’ll make it.”

“Are you sure? I’m already late for a meeting.”

“Yeah.”

After a moment I asked the question etched in stone somewhere.

“Well, this nice girl drives a cab. Ok Nimrod?” she huffed. I sunk back into the seat. I focused on an ID with her picture. She was smiling and it said ‘Corky,’ but I couldn’t make out her last name.

We didn’t make it far. Out on the highway the car sputtered and died. She cursed like a sailor and managed to ease it over onto the rough shoulder where the gravel met the brown dead grass. Hot misty steam sifted through the seams of the hood. She got out on the passenger side and retrieved a bag of tools with a huge monkey wrench popping from the top, and a large jug of water. When I offered to help she just shook her head sadly. I think she was crying.

Awhile later she picked up a rock and hurled it angrily at a billboard that boasted pain free laser surgery for hemorrhoids. She missed horribly. I followed with one of my own, and hit the smiling bald headed fucker above the left eye. I left a mark in his forehead, but the son-of-a-bitch was still smiling. Corky laughed and I sensed from her sidelong glance that I may have been shedding some of my nimrod-ness.

She sat down on the hard weedy patch of dead grass and her shoulders slumped and lit another Lucky. She squashed the burnt out match deep into the ground with her left shoe. I squatted next to her. Cars rushing by kicked up a nice breeze.

“What is it?”

 “The serpentine belt.” Her voice was much more relaxed. It was rather gentle and being this close to her for the first time I noticed she smelled wonderful and despite an adorable streak of grease on her forehead her skin was impeccably creamy white. I didn’t dare let her catch me staring.

Instead, she was staring at me. She looked at my chest area and my waist. Her eyes shined. “Follow me!” she said.

“Give me your tie and your belt.”

“You’re kidding!”

“C’mon, Nim, you have a meeting to get to,” she mocked.

“But my girlfriend gave!…it‘s a five stitch tie!”, I started.

“Your meeting!”

“It won’t work!” I argued. But she had a firm grip on the monkey wrench so the debate was over. She took both and strung them together masterfully like an artistic weaver and worked a long armed socket wrench like an expert.

“It won’t work,” I muttered under my breath repeatedly, even after she started the car and topped of the radiator.

It did work. She got me to my office downtown as the last of the contraption slipped and shredded away. I self conscientiously stuck a thumb in a loop pretending to hold up my pants as I thanked this unusual girl.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Have a nice day, Nim,” she smiled and she shrugged her shoulders. “Just another day at the office ya know.”

* * *

The following Thursday I saw her again. She came through the door of my office on the twelfth floor carrying a small brown plastic bag. She was still wearing her ball cap backwards and wore an oversized shirt with the sleeves rolled. Her face was scrubbed clean and there was a hint of lipstick. Up close she was definitely not a dude. She handed the bag to me following an awkward silence after we had smiled at each other. Inside was a yellow silk tie and a shiny black leather belt.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said softly.

“My brother helped pick them out you know. Check out the tie,” she said as she turned it over in my hand.

I looked closely. There were seven golden stitches in the interior fabric, a sign of the most expensive and high quality stitching.

“That’s no way to spend your hard earned money,” I said, barely audible.

She smiled shyly, pushed her hair back away from where it fell near the edge of her mouth, turned and walked away.

Corky was certainly etched in stone in my mind. I loved her. A few days later I called Ray’s Cab Company and asked to speak to her. A snooty dispatcher told me she no longer worked there and was not allowed to give out any more information. In the following week I hailed cabs and drifted around town asking other drivers what became of Corky. I kept looking for her car 36. One cab driver, Spark, a quiet black man with a large gap between his front teeth told me she talked constantly about working in a garage somewhere. He looked at me in the rear view mirror and said I really looked lost. I never found her and it made me more than sad.

Kim

It is Christmas Eve at dusk in the village. A full moon rises in a clearing at the horizon as the pastel sky fades to black. It has snowed. But that’s no surprise is it? Not since that gentle boy arrived years and years ago has there nary been a day that it hasn’t snowed. Even from a blue sky in July.

The old old woman living alone peeks out the front window of her green bungalow anticipating the arrival of her precious grandchildren. Smoke is bellowing out the chimney. The cottage is snuggled in curling snow drifts and small brightly lit red candy canes march up the edges of the curving sidewalk leading to her door. One string of colored lights dangles along the roofs edge. She had attempted to hang them herself but quickly became dizzy. The paperboy sledding nearby saw her struggling and came to her rescue to finished the job. Ten smooth silver 1922 Liberty dollar coins was his reward. An oversized wreath donning a silver bell is sprinkled with snow like powdered sugar on a donut. A friendly spruce inside hugs ornaments that belonged to her mother. In the morning, lovely packages underneath waiting to burst open. It’s the kind of place you’d hope to come upon if you were lost deep in the forest.

She stands five foot three. The same at eighty-two as at seventeen. Her shining brown eyes are unmistakably young at heart. Wisps of platinum blonde are meshed in with gray engulfed in tired white. She moves slower now. That is why her home does not smell like a younger person’s home. It’s the scourge of old age. Her daughter, in the harshest words, reminds her of that fact upon each tense visit. She is no longer welcome. So, now she uses the duster that boasts ’Made With Real Lemons.’ She shakes her head now thinking about that. Her daughter makes lemon meringue pies with artificial lemon flavoring.

A car door slams and two children, a girl now nine and a little boy of three run up the magic path. The car fishtails angrily away and the children come in out of the cold, their fingers and toes already stinging. They smell cookies, not lemons.

“Grandma!” She kisses their baby cheeks. They squeeze her quilt robe all the way through to her petite frame.

In the kitchen she uncovers a red and green plate of ready sandwiches and fried onion rings. Afterwards, two enthusiastic nods to an offer of oatmeal cookies and hot chocolate. She wipes the little boy’s runny nose and he does not turn away.

“Now, Grandmother?”

“You two brush your teeth and get under the covers. I’ll be in soon.”

“Yeaah!”

She smolders the remaining embers in the fireplace and turns off the tree lights. She pauses for a moment and decides to leave them shining all night. At the front door she turns the deadbolt, throws the lever, hooks the chain, and checks to see if there are two slugs in the chamber of the shotgun.

Rocking slowly in her chair by the children’s bed, she tells the singular tale of love long ago. Her voice rises and falls, and rises once more. No need to embellish for the three year old hearing the story for the first time. Covers are pulled up to small chins and the youngest fights off heavy eyelids; an occasional nudge from his sister. The girl interrupts at one point and whispers self-assuredly to her brother “his name was Eddy.”

“Edward,” the old woman softly corrects, as she glances towards the frosted window. She’s quiet for a moment and stops rocking as if startled by something out of place. A “what happened next?” starts her rocking once more and, sadly, she can never finish with “they lived happily forever.” Then, she’s giddy again omitting “it’s snowed like hell since, babe.”

The full moon crosses the zenith and the old woman is awakened by a sound outside. Rising, she tucks the babes in their safe haven and strokes the girl’s hair. Forgetful more and more as she tries harder to think, she unlocks the door and goes out into the cold in her robe, one hand grasping the quilt at her breast, the other down at the right side keeping it from rising in the brisk chilly wind. Somewhere, a dog is howling. Moving slowly around to the side of the bungalow where the cast-iron reindeer peacefully graze, she sees a sculpture out in a snowdrift aglow in blue moonlight. Carved out of a block of ice, a gift - a small crafted figurine wearing a shawl being hugged by two smaller crystal figures with oversized scarves and mittens. Footprints blown in below the bedroom window recede into the darkness. The warm pristine fingers of her true love’s shears reflect in the distance.

The old woman smiles. It is Christmas day.

CALL

23.10.2312

Annalee Call’s lifeless, naked body is before me on the cold slab under a clean white sheet. Three weeks ago a fellow surgeon, Simon, and I brought her remains here from a dramatic recovery when her Trans-craft module went down. It’s now my job to bring her back to life after the examiner has had her under his grubby hands all this time. The brass upstairs wants me to change her internal configuration from a new schematic they sent down here to the bunker. It would squelch her judgment facility. No way! I use the word “her” and I’ll use “she” from here on out instead of what the plain tag on her toe reads:

‘Droid. Series Lm7. Diagnostic NC.’

NC means natural causes. Natural causes my ass.

Normally, Simon and I aren’t involved with rescue and recovery. We were returning from a conference on synthetic metabolism in Android structure from over in Sector 12. Hell, we weren’t coming straight back. There’s this pub over in 12 you see….well, never mind. On the way back we picked up a faint distress call in our headsets. It was in an area nobody had a business being in. It was on Earth, that iced-over abandoned sphere in the Milky Way. After homing in on the distress signal, we touched down in a frozen tundra ablaze in a white out. Donning our insulated blizzard suits and yellow lenses, we ventured out with the tracking scope. In no time at all Simon found Call’s module and tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. It was less than a kilometer North from where we had set down. The module was empty and charred. It was easy to see what had happened. The entire wire harness from a hole in the wall leading to a maneuvering rocket had melted. It was still warm. We looked at each other. There was hope.

Reconfiguring the tracking scope for a radial search, we trudged on in the blinding storm. Forty-two meters southwest of the module we found Call partially buried. We raised her body, frozen in the fetal position. Only limp was her hair. Underneath her in a dugout were two small children sleeping like dogs in a heap. You can imagine our joy. This is no ordinary ’droid.’ She had altered her body temperature to save them and she perished trying to keep them warm and awake. Retrieving the memory disk from under her left breast later during surgery, I found this sound fragment with three shivering voices from a undamaged block on the disc:

“Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb.

Mary had a little lamb, it’s fleece was white as snow.”

24.10.2312

Surgery has gone well. There was heavy deterioration in her chest cavity, possibly from a previous shoddy patch up job. Like any other profession, the last repairman was an amateur. I was struck by the color of Call’s skin. I believe I saw that color in a book I have back in my room. It’s called ‘pearl‘. In-between white and cream. Back when Earth was inhabited by seawater oysters, these little creatures produced pearls. When they were removed the oyster died. During surgery I re-inserted the salvaged memory disk in a protective and impenetrable film so that Annalee will never die. The stiletto remains in her arm for good measure. I ignored the new scheme and fully expect to be court-martialed for failure to follow orders. I ran into Ellen Ripley, a friend from years ago, in the corridor today while on a smoke break and after mentioning my case she has promised to testify on my behalf if needed. I hugged her and thanked her.

“I’ll do what I can,” Ripley said.

“Then please testify for Call instead of me,” I said.

 

11.11.2312

The seven member panel has dropped all charges against me. Simon and I went for a drink to celebrate. I was quiet. Across the room, smoke hovering above, Call was in a poker game cleaning up.

“Pearl,” I said softly.

“What’s that?” Simon said.

SIMPLE GIFTS (The Flax Girls)
 

SIMPLE GIFTS (The Flax Girls)

Kate Flax was feeling nauseous. Her mother use to tell her she was always dizzy from falling in love all the time. Vertigo swims by on occasion from nearly drowning as a child. Sitting by the window in The Copper Kettle Restaurant, an ancient place smelling of freshly baked bread ever since it opened in 1921, she waited for Charlotte and reached in her brown leather purse for a cigarette. She crossed her bare legs, adjusting the close-fitting pale blue cotton dress higher up on her voluptuous chest, and dug deep in her purse but found no light. A yawning waiter with oily hair and Salvador Dalí mustache came to the rescue with a ready match. When she looked away he peered at her milky-white bosom for the third time this day. It awakened him. But what was a French waiter doing here? Like a mermaid out of water.

Winter was losing it’s relentless grip on New England. Kate took her plate and sketchbook and went on the other side of the streaked windows to the stone terrace under the green canvas overhang. She smiled at the thought of seeing her big sister again. Her lovely round face and big brown provocative eyes roused warmth in anyone who veered close. Dalí was close on her heels with her drink. He remembered last summer the very same short skirt caused an accident just by being out there. Her mother proudly kept the news clipping folded and tucked away in a vinyl sleeve by a credit card.

Kate had seen a bluebird flickering nearby and saw the nest high up snuggled in an ancient brass wall lamp on the crusty restaurant facade. Wanting to sketch the nest, she stepped up on a chair for a closer look, and leaning forward she bent over. And then it happened:

4:54 p.m. Injury accident; motorist distracted, swerved and hit light pole; complaint of pain, refused transport; Main and 43rd.

She raised her baby well.

Charlotte Flax, in a taxi stuck in heavy traffic near the airport, felt tense as she naturally fumbled with the cross on the chain around her neck. She looked back out from high on the sky bridge towards the tarmac and noticed six planes sitting diagonally. It reminded her of a used car lot. She closed her eyes and dreamt of kicking the tires and choosing the best one to take her home again. Taking the black leather note book out of her purse she wrote that down. She could use it in a story later.

Her first novel, The Girl in the Attic, was a giant success. It was based on her artist sister. Kate’s studio was up in the loft of an old barn behind her mother’s house. Charlotte had written: