Sudden Death

Her whole life, ahead of her.

When she was 17.

Ron.  Produce clerk at Albertson’s grocery.   Dreamboat.  Looks to die for.  Love of her life, or he could be, if only he would see past her shyly offered smile and hello, and really notice her.  Once or twice a week she would stop by his department, trying to catch his eye.  She was in luck.  He suggested lunch,  just as she struggled to slip a large cantaloupe inside one of the small paper bags set out for customer convenience.

He picked her up the following day at 12 o’clock, on the dot, and drove her to the malt shop, about a mile from the market.  He was courteous to a fault.  Almost stiff.  She chalked it up to nerves.  She was certainly nervous herself.

She ordered the bacon cheeseburger.  He, a bowl of the  “soup of the day,” chicken noodle.  And when their food was delivered to the red enameled table that stretched between them, her burger was 3 miles high on the plate, or so it seemed.   Feverishly, her mind worked, puzzling over how to wrap her mouth around the burger for a bite-and do so elegantly at the same time.

She seized her opportunity-the instant when Ron took a spoonful of soup, eyes down, focused on his bowl.    She dove into the impossible stack of bread and meat, cheese and condiments, only to surface with a pickle slice, torn loose from it’s moorings deep within the burger, and now hanging  from her lips and down past her chin like a giant green tongue. 

He looked up at her, from his own perfectly executed sip.  Embarrassment burned on his face, matching the crimson of her own.

Her life was over.

When she was 17.

Eternal Optimist

The letter.  Discovered on the dusty floor behind the dark mahogany bureau, as the team of movers was preparing to haul it out of the tiny bedroom.  It was early morning in the fall of 1967.  The owner of the home, and the bureau, Howard Douglas, had been gone two months now.  The squat little cottage was going to be sold.  His heirs needed the money.

The natural assumption, of course, was that somewhere in the passage of time, the letter had slipped unseen from the top of the bureau and settled in the dark inch of space between the back of the heavy piece of furniture and the wall.

A casual glance, however, would easily spot the brittle strips of cellophane tape barely clinging to the rough unfinished board on the back of the bureau.  Pieces of tape that had already released their grip on the yellowed paper of the envelope.  So the letter was not lost after all, but had been intentionally concealed.  How many years had the letter waited in silence, refusing to give itself away?

With calloused hands, and curious eyes, one of the movers, a balding man with a broken front tooth, removed the letter from the envelope, and began to read.

                                       *****

July 23, 1944

Darling,

Because you are reading this, I know that my brother Howard has carried out my plans by retrieving this letter from its secret hiding place and delivering it safely to you.  And you, safe as well, are home from the war!

Now that you know where to find me, I am so excited to see you that I can hardly stand it!  We will finally be together-no more secrets, no more running away.

Yours, my love.   Always and forever.

Anna

                                           *****

“Well ain’t that a shame.  Looks like lover boy never got the message.”  And with that, the calloused hands crumpled the sheet of paper and the envelope, and tossed them on the trash pile in the center of the room.  It was close to noon.  Abandoning, for the time being, the task of moving the bureau, the movers broke for lunch. 

Unseen by anyone, except perhaps, for a small gray spider perched near the ceiling, one of the movers re-entered the room.  A boy, slight in build and in his early teens-with a full head of blond hair, braces on his teeth, and a brother off fighting, and now missing, in Vietnam.   Hastily this boy retrieved the letter and the envelope, and hid them under his cap.

Later that afternoon, when evening was only a few remaining patches of sun light away, and the little house stood empty, the sentimental teenager climbed into the back of the moving truck and squeezed his way over to the bureau.  Taking a roll of packing tape from the pocket of his jacket and setting  it on top of the bureau, he removed the letter and envelope from beneath his cap, and with reverent hands smoothed them out before placing the one back inside the other. Reaching for the tape, he pulled off a suitabe length, and carefully reattached the envelope to the rough unfinished board, exactly where it had first been attached years earlier.

Pausing, before he left the truck, he spoke in a voice so soft that he almost didn’t hear himself.

“Don’t give up hope Anna.  Never give up hope.”

Out of this World

So I went to this party last Halloween, and met a Martian.  Really nice guy.  And talk about an impressive costume. I could tell he approved of my Elf get-up too, because he asked me out.  I said yes. Nice guys don’t exactly fall from the sky, you know.

I  bought a new dress for the occasion.   A short, sparkly, midnight blue number, with rhinestone stars around the hem.  I was ready at the appointed hour of eight, and I even had a bottle of champagne on ice, to break the ice.

He showed up on time, and I appreciated that.  But he was wearing his Martian costume again.  I thought  it was supposed to be a joke, but from the serious look on his face, I could see that it wasn’t.

I invited him in, and suggested a glass of bubbly before we headed out for the evening.  He said he’d never tried champagne.  I’m guessing the bubbles took him by surprise when he took his first sip, because he sort of snorted and then sneezed.  Poor thing, he was mortified.  And chalk it up to an overactive imagination on my part, but he appeared to turn green with embarrassment, not red. 

Perhaps I should have warned my guest to go easy on the champagne.  That it would sneak up on him if he drank it too fast.  But he’d polished off the rest of the bottle before I’d even finished my first glass.  In a giddy mood, he started to tell  jokes. And the more he laughed at his own humor, the greener he got.

Q: What did the Martian say when he was told he couldn't fish without a permit?

A: I'm doing very well with  worms, thank you.

                                              ***

A Russian, an American, and a Martian were talking one day.

The Russian said, "We were the first in space!"

The American said, "We were the first on the moon!"

The Martian said, "So what? We're going to be the first on the sun!"

The Russian and the American looked at each other and shook their heads. "You can't land on the sun.  You'll burn up!" said the Russian.

To which the Martian replied, "We're not stupid, you know. We're going at night!"

                                                ***

Two Martians from space upon seeing their first snake.

First: "That's only a little green snake."
Second: "Yes, but it might be as dangerous as a ripe one!”

And then, without warning, the joke telling stopped.  My date was now face down on my carpet, his laughter  turned to tears.  Through his sobbing, I thought I heard him mumble something about being homesick.  My heart was breaking for him, but I didn’t know what to say.  So I fumbled for my cell phone and handed it to him. I told him to call his mother if it would make him feel better.  Drying his eyes with his sleeve, he sat up, and put his head on my knee. 

And that’s when I noticed his antennae.

Like I said.  Last Halloween I met a Martian. This Halloween I’m going to meet his mother.  My biggest dilemma is what I should wear-my sparkly dress or my Elf costume.  I want to make a good first impression.

Spring Fling

She was giddy.  Giddy because it was spring.  Giddy because her school term was almost over, and the promise of a seemingly endless summer holiday was just about to be kept.  Giddy because when you are 21, and summer and eternal sunny days await, it is simply natural to be giddy.

Walking home one afternoon, after attending her world history class where she had listened to her professor lecture on the subject of  ancient matrimonial customs, Cecily chose to journey several blocks out of her way and take the longer route through the city park.   She was in no particular hurry to return, on such a splendid afternoon,  to the small room she rented in the impressively ornate three story Victorian boarding house.

Though it was still spring, Cecily was already dressed for summer in an airy navy blue double-breasted slacks suit,  small white hat, and a pair of low heeled black and white spectator pumps. Strolling at a leisurely pace, she spied a group of school boys playing Kick-the-Can along the path in front of her, and impulsively, she swooped in to take a turn ahead of the youthful  pack  before they caught up to the empty tin. 

And then fate played its hand.

Cecily’s foot met the can with more gusto than she had intended, so that when her leg followed through in its upswing, her left shoe took flight, attaining  sufficient height, angle, and distance to thump a young man-Roger- standing off to her right, squarely in the back, between his shoulder blades.

Aghast, she was helpless.  Helpless to do anything but watch her unwitting target caught by surprise at the force and suddenness of the blow.  Hopping deftly over a low rope barricade, Cecily retreated  to a green wood and iron park bench where she scrunched  on the seat and looked ground ward, pretending to be absorbed in watching a group of pigeons eating the remains of a bag of popcorn.  She was certain she had eluded detection .

“Excuse me.”

A deep voice sounded from somewhere above her line of vision, and a hand, sticking out from the sleeve of a tan tropical worsted wool jacket, came forward, holding out a low heeled black and white spectator pump.

“I think I  have something that belongs to you.” 

In answer to her shocked expression, Roger simply pointed, with the shoe, to a small hand lettered sign, hanging from another section of the rope.   WET PAINT. 

“Oh!” was the most Cecily could muster.

“You see,”  Roger continued, “it was not hard  to spot you- the only person brave enough to be sitting here.  And then I noticed, on closer inspection, that you were wearing a shoe that was a perfect match to mine.  So the game is up.    What do you say we introduce our respective shoes and let them become better acquainted.  Over coffee perhaps?” 

He nodded in the direction of a small brick building across the street, where red and white checked tablecloths cloaked small round tables which had been set outside so that patrons could enjoy the sunshine and fresh air.

“I don’t really see that I have much choice in the matter,” Cecily replied, since you do have my shoe.   Although my shoe seems to be the least of my worries at the moment.  If I’d known that I would find myself in this predicament, I would have worn something green today.”

“Here.”  Roger smiled, handing her his jacket.  “This should provide an adequate disguise for that predicament of yours, although I must say, green suits you.” 

And he winked.

“Come along.  Our coffee is getting cold.”

                                       *****

Although Cecily was enjoying Roger’s company immensely, after an hour or so she told him she really ought to be getting home.

“It’s my pants, you see.  The paint is drying and they are becoming rather uncomfortable.” 

She blushed, but she had to be truthful.   He was disappointed, though he tried not to show it.

“I quite understand, but let me at least walk you home.  And if you’ll indulge me, I  have to make one quick stop first.”

Roger paid the bill and joined Cecily, where she waited for him on the sidewalk.  Taking her by the elbow, he proceeded to steer her towards a small row of shops behind the cafe, stopping in front of a shoe store.  He opened the door, and motioned  for her to go inside.  Puzzled, she heard him reply to the clerk’s “May I help you?” with  “Yes.  We need a pair of ladies shoes, size…?”  he looked at Cecily quizzically.

“ 7,”  she answered.

“In size 7.”  Roger echoed back to the clerk, and then added,  “With lots of straps.” 

Turning to face Cecily, Roger explained.

“ I’m awfully glad we met today.   I think you are pretty keen, and  I’d like to see you again,  if you’ll agree to it-  but… ”  he paused for a moment.  And then, as he gave her another wink-

“ I’m just not taking any more chances with your shoes!”  

                       

From Every Angle

Carefully, she arranged the cameras in a random pattern on the floor of her living room-making sure to leave enough space for herself in the center.  If she’d had more cameras, more time, some help perhaps-her task would have been easier. 

Starting with the first camera, she set the automatic timer, and then, as quickly as she could, moved on to the next until all of the cameras  were ready.

Barely having laid down, hoping she had positioned herself within the frame of every viewfinder, the first camera shutter snapped, until in rapid sequence-like a string of firecrackers-each camera completed it’s task and fell silent.

She was not right for him.  He had made that perfectly clear.  Was it her looks?  Intellect?  Sense of humor?  He would not say, only leaving her to assume that she was somehow, in his eyes, flawed.  She was desperate  to see herself as he saw her.

It would be a few days before she had the pictures-and, she hoped, the answer.

Lily and Joe

We regret to inform you…..

It seemed only fitting on that summer night when Lily received the telegram, that a hail storm came through and shattered their garden, just as words on a piece of paper shattered her life. 

Missing in action.

By morning, there was little left of the carefully planted  beds of flowers and Victory Garden vegetables that  had dotted their back yard.    What remained in the wake of the storm was just an ugly tangle of broken stems and shredded blossoms.

Not that Lily noticed.  Not then.  Her heart was crushed, the beauty of her own life gone as well.   It would be some time before she would look outside and realize that there had been two casualties that night.

Through the fall and winter, like her garden, Lily lay dormant. Her garden, under a blanket of frost and then snow, and Lily, swaddled in the comfort of her grandmother’s quilt.  She was in shock, and so was her garden, and Mother Nature prescribed sleep.

In the spring Lily ventured out into her back yard for the first time, and assessed the damage.   Normally, spring is a time of wonder, as new signs of life push through the darkness of the soil to reach the sun and rain.  Lily felt no wonder this year.  Just sadness and loss, and she watered the ground with her tears.

But as summer began to edge its way past spring, the first seeds of hope were sown.  Dressed in Joe’s old work shirt, bib overalls and rubber boots, with her hair caught up in one of his red bandanas, Lily set to work.  She pulled up the lupine that had never thrived even in the best of years, and planted snapdragons.  The larkspur that shriveled in the midday heat  she replaced with hardier chrysanthemums.  She tore out half of the overgrown  blackberries, and put in more tomatoes and green beans.   And as she pulled, and cried and planted, her garden, along with her heart, started to mend.

By the end of summer, Lily was finished. She’d brought  their garden back.  Not the same garden they had  planted together. That garden was gone.  But a new one, a better one.  She was sure Joe would approve, and be proud of her.  She was accepting that her life held a future.  Even without him.

And then one afternoon, in early September, just as she was in the midst of picking a bouquet of black eyed Susans and asters to place on the little cherry table in her kitchen, Lily received a second telegram. Still holding the flowers, and scarcely able to breathe, she sat down in the grass and opened it.

For the second time in her life, Lily held, in trembling hands, a bouquet of flowers that seemed to her to be the most beautiful flowers in the world.

Somewhere in Time

They had to leave immediately.

If the rumors on the street were true,  if the chatter on the internet was to be believed, a flash mob was planning to attack their neighborhood in roughly 2 hours.  Other parts of the city were already under siege.   Around 11 pm, Jack called his wife from the electronics assembly plant where he worked, and told her what he’d heard. Trying to calm the worry in her voice, he advised her,  “Now don’t panic honey, but I want you to pack a few things and get Tess ready.  I’ll be home as fast as I can-I'm hoping to be out of  here in about 5 minutes.”

For months, they’d  been talking about leaving their neighborhood, anyway.   Two  years ago, when Jack and Louise  first moved to this city, it had seemed like the ideal place to settle down and raise their small daughter.  But the picture, painted these two short years later, was not so rosy.  Violence had moved in and taken over. Smog and noise were their neighbors now.

Though it was only early fall, there was a decided chill in the air, more keenly felt due to the lateness of the hour.  Bundling up their sleeping child, still dressed in her warm flannel pajamas, the pair loaded their car, an imposing vintage black Ford that had belonged to Louise’s grandfather.  It offered, in the inky darkness, the safety of a mobile fortress.

“Jack! My cell phone, honey-I left it inside.”

“Leave it.  There isn’t time to go back.  Besides, I’ve got mine.”

Looking back, as they left their house, Jack and Louise could see, against the night sky, the surreal reflection  of several fires burning other parts of the city into ruin.  They headed off into the night, without a plan or even a destination in mind, hoping only to find another town, far away from their abandoned town, where they could start over.

After Jack had been driving for more than 7 hours, the darkness began to pull back, revealing the first threads of daylight.  The family found themselves at the edge of a sleepy little village- a jewel of beautiful old homes, and a  quaint downtown that was just beginning to wake up.  As they made their way along the main street, hunger pangs stirring within their empty stomachs, the trio stopped in front of a friendly looking diner and parked between an old red pickup truck and a green sedan similar to their own car.   Gathering Tess, they went inside for a bite to eat before continuing on. 

Still marveling over their breakfasts-varying combinations of eggs, pancakes, bacon, toast and hash browns-for a mere 35 cents each, they tipped their waitress, a cheerful young woman with a  40’s updo, and went back out into the morning.

Continuing down the main street, both Jack and Louise were puzzling over this oddly dated-yet at the same time comforting- place they now found themselves in.  Jack braked to let a man sporting a fedora and wool gabardine topcoat cross the street, and as Jack looked at Louise to raise his eyebrows in a question, he spotted, down a side street, an old fashioned  movie theater with a lighted marquee.

Casablanca

This year’s soon to be smash hit!

Starring Bogart and Bergman

********************

Jack fully intended to head back out towards the freeway and continue traveling. He did not intend to linger in this town, as much as both he and Louise felt drawn to it.  But for reasons they could not identify, they stopped at a small, well maintained tourist park.  Perhaps it was curiosity, or perhaps sheer fatigue, but whatever the reason, Jack arranged to rent one of the park’s tiny cabins for the next several days. 

This mysterious little city that seemed to be straight out of the past-a place they didn’t understand, but didn’t want to leave, would offer them a brief respite before they continued on their journey to find a new town, and a new home. 

In a few short days they would come to realize two things.

First, it was 1942.

And then…

They realized they were already home.