Where You Belong

Photo prompt from Magpie Tales

“Missed you in church yesterday,” Pastor Tuttle said.

“Had to get the hay off the ground.” Isaac patted his faithful gray mare on the neck and then swung himself up onto his wagon. Taking up the reins, he flipped them gently onto the horse's back and rode away from the minister without so much as a glance in his direction.

“Sunday is the Lord's day,” Tuttle called after him. “I'll expect to see you where you belong next week.”

Back at his farm, Isaac unhitched the mare and released her into the corral next to the barn. He unloaded the supplies he had just purchased into the house and stowed the wagon in the shed. It was a beautiful day. The kind of day when a dip in the pond seemed like a good idea. Whistling to his dog, Isaac and the shaggy, nameless mutt, set out across the fields in the direction of the swimming hole that was nestled in a grove of poplar trees at the north edge of his property. He'd been swimming there since he was a kid and it remained one of the few indulgences that he permitted himself as an adult.

Used to be that Tuttle would join Isaac. Before he took to the pulpit as the town's self-appointed saviour, Cole Tuttle was Isaac's best friend. They grew up together, playing as children in the fields that surrounded their family farms. Inseparable and dedicated, they supported each other through the thick and thin of becoming men. Through first drinks, first loves and first fights, Isaac and Cole were a team, learning the ropes and catching each other when one of them stumbled or fell on the path of life.

When Reverend Archer died, Cole announced – quite out of the blue – that he was going to replace the old man. Isaac had been stunned. After all the years of Sunday service antics they had dreamed up and acted out in defiance of having to sit in those hard pews every week, Isaac had not expected this twist in their relationship. Over night, it seemed, Cole had changed from a fun-loving friend into a zealot of biblical proportions. Gone, instantly, were the wild nights in the saloon, the high-stepping evenings at the community barn dances, the passionate and clumsy attempts to woo the local girls, the fishing escapes and the camp-outs out on Marble Ridge. Gone, it seemed, was youth itself.

At first, Isaac had thought it was a lark, that Cole was just making fun of the town and that he was planning some spectacular coup. He actually looked forward to Cole's first sermon, thinking – believing – that it would go down in history as one of the most shockingly hilarious events that ever took place under the church roof. He donned his Sunday best and positioned himself in the second pew next to the aisle where he could get a good view without looking like an accomplice. His beliefs were quickly dashed, however, when Cole stood up and, in a thunderous voice, accused every town member of being a wicked sinner bound for hell.

About half way through this terrifying oration, Isaac stood up and walked out of the church. When he reached the nave, Cole paused in his address and pointed an accusatory finger at his life-long friend. “And you, Isaac Porter, are the worst of the lot!”

If anyone else had been planning on leaving, they didn't dare move after that!

Isaac closed the door behind himself and walked away from the one person in the world he had loved the most.

The years passed and Isaac inherited his family's farm. He married Sue-Ann Nivens, who died a year later giving birth to a son. The boy died as well and Isaac lost all hope of ever finding happiness again. He simply ran his farm to the best of his ability and kept to himself. Tuttle had forced the saloon to close and had banned all dances anyway. Socializing of any kind was prohibited unless it was a church function. Tuttle would go out of his way to humiliate anyone who didn't follow his strict interpretation of how God expected them to behave. A bitter core of hatred and resentment formed in the hearts of the town folk. But none were brave enough to speak up or take action against Cole Tuttle.

That afternoon Isaac found the pond just as he expected to: deserted. Tuttle had declared swimming yet another sin. If boys had time to swim, they had time to help their fathers in the fields. He stripped off his clothes and waded in to his thighs before diving in. While the dog chased squirrels, Isaac luxuriated in the cleansing and refreshing water. He swam a few laps and then turned onto his back to float on the smooth surface, dappled with spots of golden sunlight beaming down through the trees. He reflected, as he often did, on his joyous youth and lamented the loss of his friend, his wife and his son. The bitterness he felt over the way things had turned out felt like a lead weight in his belly. He could feel it pulling him under, dragging him down and he suddenly felt like surrendering to it.

If I just let go, the thought, I won't ever have to look at Tuttle again. I won't ever have to hear his condemning voice or see the fear on the faces of the people in town. I won't ever have to think about Sue-Ann or our boy. I won't hurt anymore.

He watched as the water closed around his face and the dappled sunlight shimmered above him. He let himself sink down, down, down... his lungs burning, his mind screaming for air.

Just as he was about to suck in a chest full of water, something grabbed his arm and he felt himself being hurled back up toward the surface of the pond. Without ceremony, Isaac found himself being flung onto the shore. He rolled over, coughing up water and gasping for breath. Looking around for whoever had pulled him out of the pond, all Isaac could see was his dog looking back at him with his head cocked sideways in surprise and confusion.

“Who's there?” he hacked. But no one answered.

Shaken and a little fearful, Isaac redressed and went home. He kept looking for signs of someone nearby, someone who must have pulled him out of the pond, but he saw no one. I need a good, stiff drink, he thought and looked forward to the contraband whiskey he kept hidden at the house.

Night fell slowly, as it does in the summer months. Equally slowly, the whiskey burned away the cold fear that had gripped Isaac's heart that afternoon. By the time darkness had ended the day, he had convinced himself that it must have all been a dream. And now, with a whole day wasted, he took himself to bed with the drunken promise to make up for it the next day.

And so he did. The week, hot and teeming with mosquitoes, was more productive than usual. Isaac put up the rest of the hay, mended the fence in the north pasture, harvested the first potatoes of the season and got a good start on his winter wood supply. But something kept drawing him back to the pond and every evening he would wonder over to it and sit on the huge rock that jutted in from the shore line. His ruminations were as deep as his resentments. He kept thinking about Tuttle and the fear-mongering hold he had on the town. Whatever had happened in this pond that afternoon, Isaac was convinced that it had happened for a reason. There was a purpose behind his salvation from drowning and whoever – or whatever – had stopped him from dying was trying to tell him something. If only he could figure out what it was...

On Saturday night, just as the last of the light was fading, something in the pond caught Isaac's eye. It glittered for a second, then disappeared. Isaac peered into the water, but he couldn't see it. He laid down on his stomach on the rock, getting his face as close to the surface as he could. There is was again. A quick glint of gold.

Isaac reached down into the pond and felt around the sandy bottom. It took a minute, but finally his big hand closed around an object that he hadn't seen in many years. He pulled it out and held it up, marveling at the sight of it. It was the gold chain and cross that he had given to Sue-Ann on their wedding day. She had lost it only a few months later while they were swimming one hot July evening, much like this one. She had cried inconsolably over the loss. Not even his promise to buy her a new one would comfort her. He had tried so hard to find it, returning to the pond every chance he got that summer to look for it, but eventually he had given up. After she died, he had forgotten about it completely.

Walking back to the house, Isaac's thoughts turned to Sue-Ann. How she loved to dance and sing. Her voice was the sweetest he'd ever heard and her laughter... Oh, how she loved to laugh!

He thought about all the fun they had had in their short time together. He thought about all the fun he'd had before that. Life had been a continuous celebration of everything good: friendship, love, hope!

Instead of going home, Isaac found himself on the road to town. Few lights glowed in the windows of the homes that lined the streets. Most of the people were already in bed – resting up for church in the morning. That didn't stop Isaac from banging on the first door he came to at the home of Joshua Slater and his family. Groggy and concerned, Joshua opened the door and stared at Isaac.

“Bring your fiddle to church tomorrow,” Isaac instructed. When Joshua opened his mouth to protest, Isaac hushed him. “Just do it!”

From there, Isaac went door to door, giving instructions at each home to bring some food or an instrument or some decorations to church. The people were stunned, but none of them openly objected. They were confused, yet intrigued. What on earth was Isaac up to?

The next day, Isaac got up early to feed the stock and get ready for church. He put on his best suit and hat, then hitched up the mare to the wagon and trotted her into town.

Tuttle was standing on the church steps greeting people as they arrived. He seemed a little out of sorts, seeing the smiles and hearing the good-natured well-wishes from this congregation. When he saw Isaac pull up and tether his horse among the other wagons, his eyebrows shot up in mild shock and the vain belief that he had finally won. He smuggly waited for Isaac to approach.

“Well, it's about time you showed up here, Porter,” he said, offering his hand in a gesture of feigned welcome.

Isaac looked at the offered hand, but brushed passed it without acknowledgment and went inside to find a seat. The church was full to capacity, but Joshua Slater made room for him with his family.

“What are you up to, Isaac?” Joshua whispered.

Isaac just smiled. “Did you bring it?” he whispered back.

“It's in the wagon. I wouldn't dare bring it in here. Tuttle would probably smash it to smithereens.”

“As long as it's easy to get at. When you get my signal, lead everyone out into the church yard and get that fiddle.”

“What signal?”

“Oh, you'll know.”

The service began with Tuttle's usual admonition to the congregation to dig deep into their pockets and give until it hurts. God's work isn't cheap and if he's blessed you, you better bless him back. A typical fire and brimstone sermon followed the order to pony up in the name of the Lord – lest ye be condemned to the fires of hell! It was almost more than Isaac could stand. He gritted his teeth so hard, they ached.

At last, Tuttle called for prayer requests. A few people stood up and asked their fellow worshipers to pray for ailng relatives, children and cattle. They were all brief and mumbled pleas for divine assistance under the disapproving gaze of their pastor.

“Once again,” Tuttle sneered after the last request was muttered, “you all seem to miss the point. Why do you insist on asking for things for yourselves? Why can't you see that the Lord works in mysterious ways and He decides what He gives and what He takes?”

Isaac had had enough. “I have a request,” he said, standing up and stepping into the aisle.

“Indeed!” Tuttle said. “A request for forgiveness, I should hope.”

“Something like that,” Isaac said and started walking toward the pulpit.

A collective gasp rose from the congregation.

“Please stay in your seat, Isaac. We can hear you from there.” Tuttle was clearly unsure of Isaac's intentions. And quite discomfited by his approach.

“I'm sure you can,” Isaac said, “but then these good people would miss this...”

Isaac drew his arm back and punched Tuttle squarely in the nose!

Another gasp preceded an enormous cheer from the crowd. “Follow me!” Joshua Slater shouted over the din and then led the people outside where they gathered their instruments, passed around food and hung flowers and ribbons from every available surface. Music and laughter filled the air, while Tuttle rolled on the floor in agony.

“My nose!” he wheezed. “You broke my fucking nose!”

“Oh, you'll live. You've survived worse.” Isaac looked down at the writhing pastor. “Remember how you told me you expected me to be where I belonged today?”

Tuttle glared at Isaac.

“Well, that's where I'm going right now.” He pointed outside toward the church yard full of revelers. “If you care to join us, I'll make sure no one else punches you in the face.”

With that, Isaac left the church and joined the party that lasted well into the night. He danced with several pretty girls. He even sang a couple of songs for the crowd. And he laughed. Oh, how he laughed.

As for Tuttle... Well, he actually saw the light – so to speak. He intended to scuttle away unseen, but Joshua Slater's wife, Mabel saw him and helped him clean up some of the blood from his broken nose. She gave him a huge piece of fried chicken and a chunk of cherry pie and a hug. His shame was deep, no doubt about it, but he accepted the forgiveness the town so willingly gave him.

Eventually, the saloon was reopened and the community barn dances started up again. Tuttle was offered a position as bartender, but declined in favour of working for Isaac on the farm where they renewed their friendship and swam in the pond on hot summer days.

A new pastor was found for the church. His name was Jacob Joyce and he played a pretty mean fiddle himself!

With Hairy Legs and Un-brushed Teeth

Pete and Natalie, a young, childless couple, have just gotten up on a Saturday morning. Pete is looking for his tooth brush to complete his daily ablutions. Natalie has just stepped out of the shower. As they jostle for position at the vanity, this is their conversation:
“I don’t know what to tell you, Pete. I haven’t seen your toothbrush.”
“Are you sure?”
“Only fools are sure, Pete.”
“So you have seen it.”
“No! I have not. “
“Then what was that about fools?”
“It was a quip.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. Look, just use my tooth brush for now and I’ll pick up some new ones when I go to town later.”
“I’m not using your tooth brush, Natalie. That’s gross.”
“It isn’t any grosser than you sticking your tongue in my mouth when we kiss.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I don’t scrape plaque off your teeth with my tongue.”
“Ah.”
“What does that mean?”
“I believe it means I see.”
“I know it means I see, Natalie. What I meant was what do you see?”
“I see your point.”
“And I believe that it means I won the argument.”
“We weren’t arguing.”
“Yea, but I was right.”
“Yep, Hon, you were right.”
“I can’t believe you’re conceding so easily.”
“There’s nothing to concede. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I won. I won. I won.”
“Don’t be so puerile.”
“Speak English.”
“Have you seen my razor?”
“No. Use mine.”
“Yours is dull.”
“It better not be.”
“Well, it is. I used it yesterday.”
“You used my razor?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Tell me you didn’t shave your pits with it.”
“Just my legs.”
“Good, ‘cause I don’t want you shaving your pits with my razor.”
“It’s not like I’m scraping plaque off my teeth with it.”
“I should hope not.”
“Okay, where’s your razor?”
“In my shaving kit.”
“No, it’s not.”
“That’s where it’s supposed to be.”
“Well, it isn’t in there. Your toothbrush, however, is.”
“What’s my tooth brush doing in my shaving kit?”
“How should I know? You put it there.”
“I did not.”
“Well, who did?’
“That should be obvious.”
“I didn’t put your tooth brush in your shaving kit. Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re puerile, too.”
“Oh, brother!”
“Nat?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s go back to bed.”
“With hairy legs and un-brushed teeth?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.”

A Subtle Knife

It’s not like he had never seen a dead body before. He’d seen lots of them. But they were always laid out in fancy coffins, wearing their Sunday best and made up to look like they were sleeping. At least that’s what everybody always said, “Looks like he’s just gone for a nap, doesn’t it, Vinny?” Looked more like they dropped dead on a stage somewhere with all that makeup troweled on their faces. But Vince always nodded solemnly, the way he was supposed to, and then went in search of the cookie table. There was always a cookie table at a proper funeral.

This body, though, was not in a coffin, not wearing its Sunday best and definitely not made up to look like it was sleeping. This body was sprawled behind a dumpster with a look of shock on its face and blood all over its shirt. It stared blankly up at the sky with its mouth open and a knife sticking out of its neck. Before it was an it, while it was still a he, it must have made a feeble attempt to remove the offending knife, for its hand lay with curled fingers underneath the blood-soaked handle.

Vince staggered back and groped for his cell phone. He had spotted the body’s legs sticking out from behind the dumpster when he went into the alley to throw out a bag of garbage from Martinelli’s, his current place of employment. It took three attempts at dialing before a nasal voice informed him that he had reached 911 and asked how he could be helped. Before he could say he would like to report a murder, his lunch decided to vacate his stomach and he hurled the Martinelli’s special all over the body’s feet. The nasal voice waited for him to finish and repeated the offer of assistance.

Wiping his chin with his sleeve, Vince stammered, “There’s a dead body in the alley behind Martinelli’s. I think it was murdered.”

“Please stay on the line, sir,” the nasal voice directed calm as a cucumber.

An eternity passed. Then the nasal voice began asking rapid fire questions, most of which Vince answered correctly. The body was that of a male. No he didn’t feel for a pulse. Yes, he was sure the guy was dead. No, he didn’t know the victim. No, he didn’t think he’d seen him before. No, he didn’t see anybody else in the alley. He was there to throw out some garbage from the restaurant. He just arrived. No, he didn’t touch anything – he wasn’t sure if vomiting on the body counted, so he left that part out.

The sound of sirens filled the air and suddenly Vince found himself surrounded by cop cars and cops. The nasal voice wished him a good day and disconnected.

“You the guy that called it in?”

Vince spun around to face a large man with a grey crew cut, grey eyes, grey suit and brown shoes standing in the alley. Several uniformed officers were bustling about, erecting barriers to the alley and stringing crime-scene tape like streamers at a wedding. A short man in khaki pants and a blue polo shirt started snapping photos of everything but the body, including Vince.

“Yes,” Vince said.

“You know the guy?” the large man asked.

“No,” Vince said.

A balding man in a white lab coat, carrying an enormous metal case, sauntered up from behind the large man and passed Vince on his way to the body. The photographer greeted him with a smile and a click of the shutter. “Emergency tracheotomy gone real bad,” he said. The bald man was not amused. He muttered something that rhymed with duck and doff and proceeded to shout orders to the uniforms to move the damned dumpster so he could get to work.

The large man motioned Vince to follow him. His grey eyes never rested on anything for more than a second, but Vince had no doubt that he had been thoroughly examined and every detail had been neatly filed away in some memory bank for later total recall. He followed the man away from the body and the cursing bald man, who was now demanding to know who had wasted a perfectly good lunch special all over his crime scene. Vince blushed, but did not confess. He decided he felt safer with the large man in the mix-matched wardrobe.

“Name,” the large man grunted.

“Vince Hemmingway,” Vince grunted back.

“Tell me everything,” the large man said.

Vince described in as much detail as he could how he had come out to the alley to throw a bag of garbage away, how he noticed the legs sticking out from behind the dumpster, how he thought it might have been a homeless guy passed out and was going to tell him to move along and how he was shocked to see that it wasn’t a homeless guy and how he wasn’t going to move along anywhere of his own accord. He told the large man that the body had not been there two hours ago. He would have noticed it on his way in to work. He always entered the restaurant from the alley. Martinelli didn’t like his employees using the customer’s entrance. He didn’t mention the lunch special’s reappearance.

Speaking of Martinelli, it was at that point that he emerged on the scene, ripping mad and screaming at Vince to get his ass back inside and quit doing terrible things to dogs. What was he paying Vince for anyway? Obviously it wasn’t doing dishes!

The large man approached the irate restaurant owner and, steering him back toward the door, spoke a few quiet words to him. When the large man returned, he assured Vince that Martinelli was okay with Vince taking as much time as he needed. No problem.

“Now what time did you get to work?” The large man asked.

“Ten o’clock.”

“And you came in the alley from which way?”

Vince pointed east toward 33 Avenue. “That way.”

“Is that the way you always come?”

Vince nodded. “I live on Denver. It’s the shortest route.”

“Of course. And did you see anyone? Anyone at all?”

“No, sir,” Vince said. “The alley was empty.”

“You’re sure, now?”

“Yes, sir. There was no one here. I got here at ten o’clock like I said and the alley was deserted.”

“Very good, Vince. I think that will do for now. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.” He large man patted Vince on the shoulder, turned and walked out of the alley.

Vince watched him go. That’s odd, he thought.

Just as he was about to enter Martinelli’s Restaurant and get back to work, he was stopped by a stocky man in a battered fedora and a tall woman of Amazonian proportions wearing a stark and ill-fitting business suit. They, too, both wore brown shoes.

“I’m Detective O’Donnell,” the man said, “and this is Detective Warshanski. Are you the young man who called this in?”

Needless to say, Vince quit his job, moved out of his apartment on Denver and failed conveniently to leave a forwarding address.

A Crossword Routine

“What are you looking for?” Duncan snapped from behind his morning paper.

“I need a pencil.” Hillary said as she rummaged through drawers and shifted papers around the phone on the kitchen counter.

“There’s a pen right beside the phone,” Duncan pointed out.

“I need a pencil. I’m doing the crossword in the paper and a pen won’t do.” Hillary continued to rummage.

“It would if you had any idea what the clues meant,” Duncan mumbled behind his paper.

“What did you say?” Hillary asked absentmindedly as she opened the silverware drawer for some unknown reason. “Aha! Found one.”

Duncan peeked out from behind his newspaper and frowned. Only Hillary could find a pencil among the spoons, he thought to himself. “Before you lose yourself in your puzzle, would you mind pouring me another cup of coffee?”

Hillary didn’t respond. She already had the paper in her hand folded to expose the blank crossword puzzle and was tapping the bent eraser band against her teeth. She put the pencil in her mouth as she poured Duncan’s coffee. “Utt’s a or-le’er urd or ha’y?” she said around the battered writing utensil.

Duncan sighed. He hated it when Hillary did the Sunday crossword. More accurately, he hated having to do it for her. “I can’t understand you with that thing in your mouth,” he admonished.

Hillary returned the coffee pot to its stand and removed the pencil. “I only have two hands,” she defended herself.

“Well I have no idea what you just said, so I can’t very well respond properly to you,” Duncan said.

“What’s a four-letter word for happy?” Hillary repeated her question.

“Glad.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“As are you.”

“For what?”

“For the coffee.”

“Oh, er, yes. Thank you, my dear.” Duncan raised his newspaper hoping it would be a strong enough barrier between him and Hillary and her crossword puzzle.

Several minutes passed in silence. Duncan could hear Hillary’s pencil scratching against the newsprint. He tried to concentrate on the golf scores in the sports section, but kept bracing himself for Hillary’s next request for assistance. He read the same score over and over, unable to concentrate.

After a while he peeked out again to find Hillary hunched over the crossword, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth and brows furrowed in deep absorption. Must be an extra, extra easy crossword this week, he thought, and, relieved to see his wife of thirty-six years finally able to do a simple puzzle on her own, returned to his sports scores. But as the time passed on without Hillary asking for help, Duncan grew increasingly irritated. He folded his own paper and plunked it down on the table.

“So, how’s it going?” he asked.

“Hmmm?” Hillary did not look up from her furious scribbling.

“The puzzle. How’s it going?”

“Oh, almost done,” Hillary said with such confidence that Duncan was stunned.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yep. Just need one more word.”

Duncan leaned forward in his chair, waiting for Hillary to tell him the clue, but she just tapped the eraser band of the pencil against her teeth a few times until at last the answer presented itself and she wrote it down.

“There,” Hillary said with satisfaction. “I love the Sunday crossword.” With that she pushed the paper aside, got up and left the room.

Duncan couldn’t help himself. He reached across the table and pulled the abandoned paper towards himself. Amazingly the crossword was indeed complete. There were a few eraser marks, but it was done. And it was right.

“By golly,” Duncan said aloud. “I think the old girl’s finally getting it.” He smiled and pushed the paper back to the spot where Hillary had left it. When he finished his now cool coffee, he decided to go out to the garage to putter for a while.

The following Sunday, Duncan and Hillary sat as usual at their kitchen table. As Duncan settled into the sports scores, Hillary started searching for a pencil. A few minutes passed before her rummaging annoyed him enough to ask what she was looking for.

“A pencil for the crossword puzzle.”

“There’s a pen right next to the phone. Use that.”

“I can’t do the crossword with a pen. You know that.” This time she opened the cereal cupboard.

“Aha!”

“Did you just find a pencil in the cereal cupboard?” Duncan asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. Weird, huh?” Hillary returned to the table and read the first clue. “What’s a three-letter word for mischievous child?”

Duncan sighed. “Imp.” He shook his head.

Just like the previous week, Hillary filled in answers without asking for help and Duncan read the same scores over and over, waiting to be interrupted. Whenever he peeked around his paper, Hillary was either writing or tapping her teeth while she reasoned out an answer. After fifteen minutes, Duncan couldn’t stand it any more. He put down his paper and was just about to ask Hillary how she was making out with the puzzle when the phone rang. Hillary jumped up to answer it and was instantly lost in a deep conversation with the neighbour over another neighbour’s dog.

Duncan reached across the table and pulled the crossword closer so he could check her answers. The puzzle was a little more than half done and two of her answers were incorrect, leaving a couple of blank spots where her mistakes made the next answer impossible. Duncan retrieved the pencil, erased the errors and inserted the right answers. He didn’t mean to keep working on the puzzle, but before he knew it, all the answers had been filled in. Except 108 across. And Duncan had no idea what the answer was.

He was tapping the eraser band against his teeth when Hillary swept back into the room. “You didn’t finish my puzzle did you?” she asked, a little alarmed.

“Uh, well... Not quite.” Duncan put the pencil down and picked up the sports section again as Hillary approached the table.

“Duncan! How could you?”

“I didn’t do it all! I didn’t get one-oh-eight across; a six-letter word for a monarch who’s coronation took place in 1937.”

Hillary sighed. “George,” she said.

“Hmph,” Duncan said, training his eyes on the golf scores. “Before you sit down, could you please pour me another cup of coffee?”

An Effigy of Taste

“So, show me what you got for your birthday,” Joyce demanded as she swept into my kitchen in a flurry of pink cashmere and silver spandex. Her newly dyed and viciously back-combed do was as stiff as her freshly botoxed smile. She wore more make-up than I bought in a year and her stiletto heels were leaving little dimples in my linoleum. “Well, come on. I’m dying to see this precious antique Sam’s been going on about.”

I beckoned her to follow me through to the front hallway. As we entered the foyer, I stepped aside and gestured with a flourish at a raised plinth next to the door. Joyce gasped.

“What the hell is that?” she wheezed through lips so augmented they could be used as floatation devices.

“That,” I said, “is the precious antique.”

Joyce, frowned as much as her botulinum brows would allow. “It looks like the head from an ancient Greek version of a blow-up doll. What are you thinking displaying it here where everyone can see it?”

Her perma-pout looked like it was about to burst. I had to get her away from the granite bust that my beloved husband, Sam, had bought at an auction for three thousand dollars. I wasn’t sure I could stand nursing her through another recovery if her face cracked. And if her jaw dropped any further, it certainly would.
I grabbed her arm and dragged her back to the kitchen. “I tried to convince him it would look good out back on the far side of the pond, but he insisted that it had to go where – as you say – everyone can see it.” I poured us each a cup of coffee and served Joyce’s with a straw.

“Danielle, honey,” Joyce said in deep sympathy, “what are you going to do?”

Joyce was my best friend and had been since grade school. She had married money. Lots of money. Three times. And her taste was both expensive and flamboyant. Sam was, sadly, jealous of her and did things – like buy hideous antique busts at auctions – in a vain attempt to keep up with the Jones’s. Or the Joyce’s as the case may be.

“This is all your fault,” I said.

“My fault? How is this my fault?” Joyce was incredulous.

The one thing that Sam failed to realize was that Joyce’s grandiosity had nothing to do with hubris. She simply had tons of money and loved to spend it. Her only concession to pride was the myriad plastic surgeries she had undergone in order to achieve her goal of becoming Sophia Loren’s doppelganger.

“He’s jealous of your money. And he thinks I am too, so he buys this stuff to impress you. To make you think that he’s as rich as you are.”

Joyce laughed. I could tell because a distinct ha-ha-ha sound emanated from between her the thickened appendages (they could only be called appendages) of her lips. “That’s ridiculous.”

“But it’s true.” I sipped my coffee the normal adult way.

“But that thing out there is... is... God, Danielle! What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to give it to you.” I smiled, because I still could.

Joyce nearly choked on her coffee. “Jeeze, Danielle. Couldn’t you just accidentally knock it off the pedestal and be done with it. What am I supposed to do with it?”

“You are going to donate it to charity.”

“I am?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why would I do that? When I donate to charities I tend to give nice things. Like cash.” Joyce sipped a bit of the hair of the dog to clear her throat of the lingering tickle from her recent brush with death.

“I know. But Sam thinks that bust is beautiful. And valuable. If I tell him that you all but did back flip when you saw it, he’ll think that he was right about it and giving it to charity would put him in the same league as you as a philanthropist. He’ll be thrilled. And everyone won’t have to see it in my foyer.”

Joyce’s eyebrows moved the entire fraction of an inch that they were able. I sensed more than saw the look of surprise she endeavoured to project. “But, Danielle, wouldn’t it be kinder to just tell him the truth? Wouldn’t this plan of yours just cater to his fantasy?”

“Mmm. I suppose, but I just can’t break his heart like that. He really does mean well.” I tried to look contrite, but my lips just couldn’t pout with the same enthusiasm as my friend’s.

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Joyce said. I could see the wheels spinning behind her wrinkle-free features.

“I have,” I agreed. “And it’s the best solution. It really is.”

“Well....”

I waited.

“Okay. But I’m doing this under protest. I don’t like manipulating Sam that way. It’s not right.”

Sam bought the story, hook, line and sinker. He was so excited about the idea of donating something valuable to charity that Joyce approved of that he could hardly contain himself. He insisted that he be the one to make the donation and even delivered the bust to the hall where the auction was to take place.

“They were ecstatic when I gave it to them.” Sam was vibrating as he spoke. “They even said that Joyce herself had only donated a thousand dollars. After the auction, they’ll send me a tax receipt for the amount it sells for. Isn’t it great to be able to give such a valuable item to charity?”

“It truly is,” I concurred.

Two weeks after the charity auction, a letter arrived addressed to Sam. He tore it open and looked at the enclosed receipt. He mouth dropped open and he staggered, having to support himself with a hand on the counter.

“What is it?” I asked.

Sam passed me the receipt and I took it with some trepidation. Then my own mouth dropped open and I had to brace myself against the counter to keep my own knees from buckling.

The receipt was made out for one hundred thousand dollars.

A matter of perspective

Sarah limped into the house and hobbled to her bedroom. She could not believe how much pain she was in. Her feet were, she thought, literally killing her and she couldn’t get the source of the torment off fast enough. One after the other two suede sling-backs were flung into the far reaches of Sarah’s closet, hopefully, to be forgotten forever. This whole bra, make-up, hair and high-heels things was not all it was cracked up to be.

Sarah often wondered why she had been so eager for any of it. It was all just a great big pain in the...

“Sarah, don’t forget to hang up your dress. I don’t want to find it in a heap on your floor in the morning.” Sarah’s mother called out from down the hall.

She retrieved the dress that had followed the shoes to the bottom of the closet and dutifully hung it up. That was another thing! Dresses! Particularly pink frilly ones with itchy crinoline, or whatever her mother had called the stupid stuff. And then there was the panty hose. What woman-hating person came up with those? Sarah balled the pair that she had been wearing and tossed them, runs and all, into the trash can next to her computer desk.

She pulled on a comfy pair of jeans and a blissfully baggy t-shirt. She wanted to lose the bra too, but her mother would probably notice and embarrass the crap out of her in front of her dad or something. A walk passed the mirror on her wall stopped Sarah short. She touched the up-do she had been forced to suffer for two and a half hours at the hair dressers that morning to achieve and decided that if she never washed her hair again, she would also never have to wear a bike or hockey helmet again either. She wondered if simple shampoo and water was going to be enough to get all that gunk out. Oh, and the war paint, as her dad so aptly called it, had to go too. Next stop – bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, cheeks scrubbed clean and pink and hair freed from the super glue that had held it in place, Sarah sat down at her desk and booted up her computer. In seconds the screen lit up, she opened her browser and clicked on the link to Facebook in her favourites list.

Hmmm... not many people on line, she noticed. Ah, well, some quality time in Farmville would take the edge off. Sarah found a stray kitten in the hay loft and posted it for adoption. She cleaned up and rearranged and added and rearranged...

Suddenly, a chat box opened up. Sarah looked at it and her mouth dropped open. It was Jeff Cooper.

Jeff "freakin’ gorgeous" Cooper was saying Hi to her on Facebook.

Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

And Amy wasn’t even on line to tell.

With sweaty hands, Sarah typed a casual Hi back and held her breath. Several long, long seconds passed while Sarah stared at the chat box waiting for a reply. Finally, the little icon by Jeff’s name became animated, indicating that he was writing a reply.

“How RU”

“OK U”

“OK”

Now what? Sarah’s panic doubled as she tried to think of something to write. Then a new message popped up: “U looked nice 2day”

Sarah froze. How did he know? When did he see her? She had been at her sister’s wedding all day, dressed in a gross pink bride’s maid’s dress and feet-killing high heels with her hair all done up and her face rouged and lip-sticked... How could he even have recognizer her?

“Thx”

“Wanna hang 2morrow?”

Was she dreaming? Hang with Jeff Cooper?

“Sure”

“I’ll call U”

Then he was gone.

Farmville forgotten, Sarah dashed across her room to her closet and dove in head-first, looking for the feet-killing shoes. With a wince, she jammed her aching appendages into the unforgiving sling-backs and limped out of her room and back into the bathroom. An hour later she emerged with her hair swept up and held in place with a clip. Her eyes were lined and her lashes lengthened. Her smile was a glossy, pale pink.

“Wow,” said her mother meeting her in the hall way. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get all that stuff off.”

“I changed my mind,” Sarah said, stepping gingerly around her mom and returning to her room. First order of business was to call Amy. They had a lot to talk about!

A Fishy Little Tale

“Mom, what did you do with Charlie?” The question drifted into the kitchen from the far corners of the universe, namely the playroom in the basement.

I paused from chopping the vegetables for supper to think about what I was being asked. While it seemed like a straight forward query, I had to consider the source. Tyler, who was the one who had asked the question, is my son. At the time he was four years old and had taken to naming all of his toys. The problem was that the names were often plucked out of thin air in the moment and could change from hour to hour. I didn’t even try to keep up anymore, having been chastised on several occasions for calling George Kevin and Martin Rudy and Thomas Sydney. But I took a leap of faith and, because it had featured prominently in Tyler’s play that day, assumed that Charlie was a teddy bear.

“I haven’t seen him,” I called back. “Did you look in your bedroom?” Chop, chop, chop. I dropped the carrots into a pot.

No further reply seemed to be forthcoming, so I continued chopping vegetables and preparing biscuits for the evening repast. While the biscuits baked and the veggies simmered in the soup pot, I settled down at the kitchen table to read my book. I could hear Tyler in the play room no doubt saving the world from some vicious monster and set my Mom antennae to monitor in the background. As long as he was neither too quiet nor too loud, I felt relatively safe leaving him and his imagination to conquer whatever villain they were, at present, busy vanquishing.

The soup bubbled aromatically on the stove and the biscuits plumped to perfection in the oven while the characters in my book cleverly escaped some wild, page-turning peril and extracted a confession from the least-obvious suspect. I was just about to get up and stir the soup, when Tyler popped around the corner brandishing a sword made out of an old tennis racket.

“You,” he said, pointing his makeshift weapon at me, “are under arrest!”

I raised my hands in surrender and asked what the charges were.

“You kidnapped Charlie!” Tyler accused. He stood with his feet apart and his free hand on his hip. His lips were pursed and his eyes squinted menacingly at me.

“I’m innocent,” I said. “I haven’t seen Charlie since this morning.” Didn’t I pick up the teddy bear from the bathroom floor and put it back on Tyler’s bed right after breakfast?

“I’m taking you to headquarters and you’re gonna tell me what you did with him.” He pointed in the general direction of the basement.

Just then the timer rang to let me know that the biscuits were done. Tyler graciously gave me time to get them out of the oven before completing my arrest. I gave the soup a stir while I had the chance, and then I went peacefully to headquarters to face the charges before me.

In the playroom, I was greeted by what appeared to be the aftermath of an explosion. Toys were strewn from one end of the room to the other. The only neat and tidy places were the empty toy box and shelves. I suppressed a sigh. It never ceased to amaze me how messy saving the world was.

Tyler began his interrogation by offering me an animal cracker from a container he had obviously helped himself to at some point when I wasn’t paying enough attention. He did it unapologetically, oblivious to the look of consternation that I was giving him. Apparently, it was a ‘good cop’ day and I decided to get in the spirit of the game and not make a big deal out of the breach of rules. After all the stolen crackers came from another universe and I couldn’t be at all sure what effect bringing it up might have on the space/time continuum. I took the proffered treat and thanked my captor for his kindness.

“So, where is he?” Tyler asked after chewing and swallowing a lion.

“I swear I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t have him.”

“I have a witness that says you do!” he said.

“Who?” I asked.

Tyler looked around the room and zoned in on a headless action figure a few feet away from where we sat amid the shambolic array of toys. He retrieved it and held it up in front of his own mouth. In a high-pitched voice he spoke for the witness, “She’s fibbing! I saw her put Charlie in her pocket.”

Ah! A light was beginning to dawn. Tyler wasn’t looking for a missing teddy bear at all.

I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out what I now knew Charlie to be; a small, carved, wooden fish from a set of eight that my father had made for Tyler for his birthday. I had found it under a sofa cushion that morning while cleaning and had stuck it in my pocket. I had intended to put it in Tyler’s room with the others, but had forgotten all about it. Tyler must have seen me pick it up and created this game. I handed him the toy fish, Charlie.

“Thanks, Mom!” Tyler said, pulling a matching fish out of his own pocket and spinning off into another new world.

“Oh, Charlie,” said the other fish in a squeaky voice, “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“Me too, Roger,” said Charlie in a deeper, more growly tone. “Now let’s get back to the ranch before Mr. Baddo attacks again.”

Charlie, Roger and Tyler galloped off on wild ponies bent on thwarting Mr. Baddo’s evil plan.

I looked at the toys littering the play room floor and thought very briefly about cleaning it up. Then I realized that I didn’t want to risk getting arrested again and left it all right where it was.