Shenanigans

Author's Note: A few years ago, I wrote a blog piece about how much I dislike the way we observe St. Patrick's Day here in the US. One of the particular things that bothers me is how we portray Leprechauns. In traditional Irish Lore, they are not benevolent creatures who leave chocolate coins in your shoes. They are far more mischievous—even devious. This story is a modern fairy tale about what a real encounter with a leprechaun might be like.

         Barry hung up the phone and exhaled slowly. Relief and hope flooded through him—a job interview. He had sent out hundreds of resumes and letters in the months since he was laid off. His savings were dwindling and he was beginning to feel desperate. Now he had the chance to get his foot in the door and make an impression.

         He pulled his best suit out of the closet. It was a little loose after weeks of eating Ramen noodles and pounding the pavement, but it would do. It had to be cleaned and pressed and his dress shoes were worn at the heels and in need of polish. Fortunately he had a few days to get things in order.

         “Can I get these by Tuesday?” he asked the dry cleaner.

         “The suit is no problem. You can have it tomorrow,” the smiling Vietnamese man assured him. “I don’t fix shoes anymore though.”

         “Do you know anyone who does? I can’t remember the last time I went to a cobbler.”

         “There’s a man downtown who still fixes shoes,” the man said hesitantly. “O’Malley? O’Riley? Something like that. Nice enough guy. A little strange.”

         “I can put up with strange if he can fix my shoes before my interview on Wednesday. Have a good night Mr. Nguyen.”

         Barry left the store and walked downtown, saving himself the bus fare.

“This guy better still be in business,” he muttered as he pulled his coat tightly to shut out the bitter March wind.

At the end of a row of empty store fronts, a golden light poured from a shop window. Barry couldn't remember ever seeing the carved oak sign that read:

Daniel O’Rourke, Cobbler

Shoes Repaired While You Wait

         He pushed open the door, expecting the shop to be broken down and dusty like the rest of the neighborhood. Instead, well cared for hand tools were laid out like a surgeon's on the maple workbench and an old black and gold Singer sewing machine gleamed like new. A rack of perfectly repaired shoes lined the wall, each pair tagged with its owner’s name. A statue of a dozing leprechaun sitting on a bench with an awl in his hand decorated one corner.

         There was no one in the shop. No bells rang when he opened the door to announce the arrival of a customer. Barry waited a moment and cleared his throat, hoping it would draw someone from the back room. A few moments passed and he called out, “Hello? Is anyone here?’

         “Oh! I beg your pardon sir. I must have dozed off!” replied the man Barry had mistaken for a statue. He leapt from his stool in the corner and crossed the room with remarkable speed for a man of only four feet tall. “My name is Daniel O’Rourke. What can I do for you today?” His freckled face was nearly as red as his hair and his dark eyes shimmered like coals.

         “I have a job interview on Wednesday. I’m wondering if you can have my shoes fixed in time.”

         “Let’s take a look then,” O’Rourke said and gestured for Barry to put the shoes up on the counter. He hopped onto an old wooden box and took a closer look. “These are good shoes. It’ll be nothing to get them looking like new.”

         “That’s great,” Barry said. “I’ve been out of work for months. I really need to make a good impression at this interview.”

         “Months you say?”

         “You wouldn’t believe how many jobs I’ve applied for. No one’s hiring.”

         “Well that calls for a celebration my boy!” the little man declared and slipped into the back room. He returned with a pottery jug and two old cups. “I know it doesn’t look like much. But this whiskey is the best you’ll ever have.”

         Barry was taken aback by the O’Rourke’s friendliness, but never one to turn down a glass of whiskey, he smiled and accepted the drink.

         “Slainte!” the little man said. His thick Donegal brogue reminded Barry of his great grandfather.

         “Slainte,” Barry replied, drinking the whiskey. The sweet and spicy liquor burned pleasantly.

         “Your grandfather?” Spoke the little man as if reading Barry's mind. “He was a Donegal man.”

         “How did you know that?”

         “Ach, I've been around. You might say I can smell the blood of a Donegal man,”

         “You're right about the whiskey,” said Barry. “I’ve never tasted anything this good. What’s it called?” He finished the rest and held his hand out for more. The little man poured another generous tot into the cup and smiled as Barry continued drinking.

         “Oh, you can’t buy this in any old package store son. This is Daniel O’Rourke’s own whiskey.”

         “You made this yourself?” Barry asked as the whiskey warmed him all over and made his vision blur. Nevertheless, he held his glass out for more. “You can make whiskey and fix my shoes in time for my job interview? You’re my hero!”

         “I can indeed. Alas, I don’t think you’ll be goin’ to that interview on Wednesday Barry me boy.”

         “Not going? Why? Why wouldn’t I go? Wait. How did you know my name?”

         The little man's grin transformed from friendly to fierce.

         “You drank my whiskey mo chara. You’ll be workin’ for me for the next seven years.”

         “What? But I don’t know how to fix shoes,” Barry said as the store got fuzzier and fuzzier.

         “Don’t worry about that. You go on home. Get a good night’s sleep. Meet me back here tomorrow.”

         Barry’s mouth felt like it had been dragged through a litter box. The sun shining through his window stabbed at his eyes like needles. He couldn’t remember how he got home. The last thing he remembered was a guy who looked like he walked off a Lucky Charms box laughing at him. He staggered to the kitchen for water. On the table were his black dress shoes. The heel had been repaired and the polish was so shiny, he could see his reflection in it. There was a note attached,

“See you at 10am mo chara. D.O.”

         “Crazy old bastard,” Barry said, crumpling the note. He tossed it into the trash and took a shower.

        He emerged fifteen minutes later feeling clear-headed enough to make a pot of coffee. As he crossed the kitchen, he saw the note, no longer crumpled propped up against his shoes. It was nothing, Barry told himself. He must have imagined throwing away the note. That whiskey had really done a number on him. As he thought of the whiskey, he could feel the warmth steal across his chest like when he took the first sip. Like an echo in his mind he heard the old man say, “You drank my whiskey mo chara. You’ll be workin’ for me for the next seven years.”

         Nonsense. That was potent stuff, but not so potent it could make him a slave. He picked up the note and tore it to pieces. A chime on his phone alerted Barry that he had a voicemail.

         “Good Morning Barry. This is Fran Lancaster from the firm of Smith, Gold, and Stein. I'm calling to let you know we won't need for you to come into the interview on Wednesday. The position we spoke about has been filled.”

         Barry sank into a kitchen chair feeling cold. He glanced at his shoes on the table. The note was propped up against them once more—uncrumpled and untorn.

         The wind outside picked up. It sounded like laughter.

Write on Edge: The Past

       From the too loud television in the family room she heard a song that took her back to Central Junior High. Her hips moved to the familiar tune as she washed the dinner dishes. She smiled when the guitar solo came in, thinking about the boys in the band who wore more makeup than her mother allowed her to in those days.
       She could smell the Aqua Net in the girls’ room and see the graffiti on the wall. She remembered the mean girls who wore Flashdance inspired sweatshirts and matching leg warmers. Her face flushed when she remembered getting teased about her own clothes back then. Trendy clothes that had hung on the clearance rack a little too long or outgrown by a more fashionable cousin. It took a few more years before she was comfortable with her own sense of style and stopped trying to follow trends her family couldn’t afford.
       There were good times of course. She bought her first vinyl albums: Duran Duran, Men at Work, The Police, Prince, and Billy Joel. She gained some independence, being dropped off the Riverdale Roller Rink to skate to “Gloria” and “Oh Mickey”. There wasn’t that kind of independence for her own children these days. Twelve seems too young to see a movie or wander a mall without a parent in the age of helicopter parenting.
       Her pre-teen son bopped into the kitchen looking for a snack (again).
       “Were they just playing Duran Duran on MTV?” She asked him. “I haven’t heard that song in ages.”
       “Huh?”
       “I thought I heard Hungry Like the Wolf.”
       “Oh, that was a yogurt commercial Mom.”




       So maybe I really am back in the saddle--it’s been a long time since I wrote any fiction. I’m linking up with Write on Edge for the first time in way too long. This week’s prompt is a quote, “The past is a foreign country: the do things differently there.” Please let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Panis Angelicus

      “Carly, can you stop by your grandmother's on the way home from school tomorrow?” My mother asked. “She was asking about you yesterday.”

      “I just saw her last week.”

      “I know. But she adores her little Piccola,” Mom said, using Nonna's nickname for me. “It would really make her day if you just stopped by. She's lonely since your grandfather passed away.”

      “Okay Mom.”

      Guilt. Mom learned from the best. That's why I got off the bus two stops early and lugged my book bag to Nonna's little yellow house. My feelings of annoyance vanished as I walked up the front steps. I smelled it before I opened the door—the unmistakable, irresistible, smell of home-baked bread. There is no more alluring scent in the world—not fresh cut grass, or Starbuck's coffee, or lemonade on a hot summer's day.

      “Is that you Piccola?” she called as the screen door slammed behind me.

      “Yes, it's me Nonna,” I said. “Something smells amazing!”

      “I knew you were coming so I baked the most perfect bread you ever saw!” Nonna said as she pulled me into an olive-oil scented hug.

      “You've gotten even more beautiful since I saw you last!”

      “It's only been a week,” I giggled.

      “That's too long to keep me from my Piccola! Now, sit down. I'll pour you some milk and you tell me about your day. The bread just needs another minute.”

      She poured milk into the tiny jelly jars she used for glasses.

      “No cheerleading today?”
      “I'm a majorette Nonna, remember?”

     “What's the difference again?”

      “Batons? I twirl batons. Is the bread almost ready?”

      “So impatient!” she said with a laugh. “Let's take a closer look shall we?”

      She opened the oven door and knocked on the bread gently.

      “It's just right.”

      She pulled out four loaves of bread that looked good enough to be on a magazine over and placed them on the large wooden board on the counter.

      “That's a lot of bread Nonna,” I said.

      “I baked a double batch. Mr. Guerra at the fruit stand gave me a good deal, so I made one for him.”

      “Fruit stand?” I whispered. “Nonna? Did you make jam too?”

      “It's the best jam I ever made.”

      “You say that every time Nonna.”

      “I'm still perfecting my formula,” she said with a wink. “Wait until you taste it!”

      “I can't wait. I love your strawberry jam. It's my favorite.”

      “Ah, Piccola, no strawberries in September. Mr. Guerra gave me a good deal on the last of the summer peaches.”

      There was something about the way her eyes lit up when she mentioned Mr. Guerra.

      “I think I remember him. Doesn't he have the wavy white hair.”

      “That's him,” she said trying to keep from smiling.

      “Nonna!” I shrieked. “You have a boyfriend!”

      “I'm too old for boyfriends,” she said. “Now try this.”

      Steam escaped from the crispy crust as Nonna sliced the bread. She slathered it with golden jam and handed it to me on an old stoneware plate.

      “Well?” she said as I slowly chewed the first bite.

      “Nonna, if you give this bread and jam to Mr. Guerra, you aren't going to have a boyfriend.”

      “No?”

      "You're going to have a husband.”

      She smiled ever so slightly and said, “You think?”

      I'm linking up this week, for the first time in AGES with Write on Edge. We were given these two delicious images for inspiration and asked to write something fresh. It's nice to be writing again.

100 Word Song: Mirrors

         I'm linking up with the 100 Word Song over at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. This week's prompt was Justin Timberlake's Mirrors. As I read over the lyrics, I thought it would be fun to write two pieces that “mirror” each other about how others see us—and how sometimes people get it right and sometimes they get it wrong. Depending how you look at it, I've either done extra credit, or I cheated by writing 200 words. I'll leave it up to Professor Leroy to decide. This piece picks up where I last left Karen and Danny. You can read more about them here. 

Karen's Mirror

         Karen and Danny spent the afternoon decorating the church basement for the CYO dance. They transformed the cold gray room with crepe paper and balloons before the Ladies' Guild arrived with cookies and punch.

         Mrs. Doyle looked scandalized to see Karen with Danny. To her, Karen was the girl who “got in trouble” after her father ran away and her mother drank herself to death. Unfit to associate with the deacon.

         To Danny, Karen was the little girl who got straight A's and sang the “Pie Jesus” at Mass.

They were both right. And they were both wrong.

Danny's Mirror

         Karen could still see the same old Danny under the cassock—the boy who had holes in his jeans and dirt under his fingernails and got into fights. When the Ladies' Guild arrived, they treated him with a reverence that made him uncomfortable.

         “Deacon Daniel, you mustn't bother with moving those chairs. We'll take care of it,” Mrs. Doyle insisted, banishing the Prodigal Son to his office to work on his next sermon.

         The coffee she brought him tasted bitter in his mouth. Mrs. Doyle couldn't see that he had come home to get his hands dirty, only Karen saw that.

Fiction: Yes Captain

         Nora watched him get ready for the day through a crack in the doorway. Everything he needed for the day was laid out on the glass top of his bureau—tie, glasses, watch, cufflinks, phone, wallet. He put each one to use, working left to right. He didn't hurry, but wasted no time. She had never known a man who took such care getting dressed. She stiffled a giggle and wondered if he put his accessories away right to left.

         When he was nearly finished, Nora hurried down to the kitchen. She had already set the table with his Wall Street Journal folded in thirds on top of his New York Times, which was folded in half. She placed an ironed linen napkin to the left of his bone china cup, ready to be filled with black French-pressed coffee when he sat down.

         One her first day, Nora let his egg cook for twenty seconds longer than necessary. He noticed and without raising his voice, made it clear that three minutes was his expectation and she would follow his instructions to the letter from then on. She did. His needs were no more than anyone else she had ever worked for, just more specific. Her pay, however, was the best it had ever been—well worth meeting his exacting standards.

         Nora brought out his breakfast tray with his (perfect three minute) egg and his one-cup serving of Capt'n Crunch in milk. It was the one glimmer of whimsy in his otherwise severe existence. He nodded in acknowledgement and opened the Times and Nora returned to the kitchen. Moments later she heard the china cup clatter in its saucer and the chair legs scraping the hardwood floor. When she looked, he was gone.

         The newspaper lay on the floor. A photo on the front page showed an shapely blond wearing a slinky dress and high black boots. The headline read, “Espionage Suspect Flees to Cuba”.

        I'm linking up this week with the Trifecta challenge which offered the word "crack" as our prompt and with Write at the Merge which gave us a wonderful photograph of men's accessories and the iconic Nancy Sinatra song, "These Boots were Made for Walkin'" for inspiration.

Ah, Bach

 

                   Karen heard music drifting up from the church basement. It wasn't Mrs. McCardle practicing today. The church organist played piano accurately and deliberately. There was no love in Mrs. McCardle's playing―music was just a job to her. Whoever was playing the Bach prelude, was playing with passion and devotion. The music sounded like praying.

                   Karen waited in the stairwell until it was quiet.  The piece was so lovely, she half expected to hear applause when it was over. Instead, it ended in an awkward, naked  silence.

                   She pushed the old metal fire door open. Danny was sitting at the battered spinet.

                   “That was you?” 

                   “Is it already 10:00?” he asked checking his watch to cover his discomfort. Karen had offered to help set up the hall for a CYO dance.

                   “I'm a little early. Sorry.  I had no idea you played.”

                   “My mother made me take lessons.”

                   “I don't remember that.”

                   Danny blushed slightly, “I used to carry a pair of boxing gloves with me when I went. I let the neighborhood kids believe I was training. I knew they'd give me a hard time.”

                   “Did you tell her you wanted to quit?”

                   “I didn't want to quit. I just didn't want to get beat up. I loved piano. It took me out of that neighborhood, you know?”

                   Karen nodded.

                   “Did you ever play professionally?”

                   “I don't like to play for other people. The only person I ever played for was Mum and she's gone.”

                   “When did she die Danny?”

                   “While I was away at seminary.”

                   “That's when my mother died too. Do you think it's easier to lose someone when you're religious?”

                   “No. Knowing that someone has gone someplace good doesn't make them any less gone.”

                   He put his hands on the keys.

                   “This was her favorite,” he said as he began to play. This time, the music sounded like a confession.

                   If you're interested in reading more about Karen, she has her own page on this blog. You can check it out here. The title of this story comes from an old episode of MASH. I'm linking up this week with Write on Edge and Trifecta. Trifecta gave us the word "deliberate" for inspiration. Write on Edge gave us the word "orphan" and this picture:

This image courtesy of F3D3.86 via Flickr Creative Commons

                  

100 Word Song: A Good Feeling

           Charlotte had been observing ghosts for years—watching their memories like a silent film. But today they spoke to her. Filled with the euphoria of purpose and belonging, she walked the hotel grounds as the sunlight dissolved the mist. The once manicured gardens were now a jungle of rhodedendron and tall grasses. It would be be easy to be discouraged by the monumental task of refurbishing the old hotel, but she felt good about it. A bird lighted on a wild rose bush and made eye contact with Charlotte. He tilted his head, twittered his approval, and soared into the sky.

           I'm linking up with the 100 Word Song prompt over at my friend Lance's place. Our inspiration for the week is the incomparable Nina Simone singing “Feeling Good”. If you like reading about Charlotte, check out her page here.

Karen: Bad Blood

           Karen sat on the curb by the service entrance of the country club watching cherry blossom petals rain onto the pavement. She was the first to arrive every shift. Tony hinted at a promotion and a key of her own once she earned the owners' trust. She wondered when arriving early, staying late, and working her fingers raw would be rewarded. She pushed aside the thought and admired the sunlight breaking through the fog on the golf course.

           “Good morning Karen,” called Charles, the co-owner and banquet manager of the club. “Early as usual!”

           She stowed her purse and began setting up the coffee urns. Tony strolled in a few minutes later and began setting up chairs.

           “Karen, can you grab the bin of white tablecloths when you're done with that?” Tony asked.

           “No problem Tony.”

           Karen finished her task and headed for the storeroom. She heard Charles arguing with John, the other owner and slowed down when she heard her name mentioned.

           “I'm not giving Karen a key,” John said.

           “Why not? She works harder than anyone else. She's always early. She's willing to stay late. The members lover her. Why not let her move up?”

           “She's a good worker. But I knew Edmond O'Brien for years. He was a weasel from the moment he took a breath.”

           “John, Karen wasn't raised by Eddie. He walked out on her and her mom years ago.”

           “Then Peggy drank herself to death! Blood will out. Karen's blood is tainted by liars, cheats, and drunks. I won't have her holding a key to my club.”
           “Our club.”

           “Fine. Our club. I gave in when Tony wanted to hire her. But I draw the line at giving an O'Brien a key to my livelihood.”

           Karen picked up the bin of tablecloths and returned to the dining room.

           “You alright Karen? Tony asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

           “Something like that.”

I'm linking up this week with Trifecta, who gave us the word “blood” for inspiration and Write at the Merge who gave us a photograph of a flowering tree and a quote from REM. You can read more of Karen's story here.

Trifecta Challenge: Charlotte's Ghosts

This piece furthers a story I wrote last week. You can read about it here.

           Charlotte moved up the staircase towards the sound of music. Her attorney thought the talk of ghosts was nonsense, but it didn't take a medium to feel the energy in the old place. She sat down on the top step, closed her eyes, and focused. The saxophone music grew clearer and was joined by a bass, piano, and drums. The smells of mildew and decay were replaced with smells of lilies, gin, and cigarette smoke. Charlotte could feel the past becoming present.

She turned at the sound of footsteps and saw a bride in white satin walking toward her. Her face was flushed with anger.

           “Clara wait!” called a man in a dinner jacket.

           “How could you? It's our wedding day. You couldn't even be faithful for the first day.”

           “It isn't what you think Sweetheart. I swear.”

           “I know what I saw Freddie. You kissed her.”

           “She's an old friend.”

          “It was more than I friendly kiss Freddie. There's lipstick on your face and it isn't my shade.”

           She turned to go and he grabbed her arm.

           “Clara I love you.”

          “Let me go Freddie. This was a mistake. I should have listened to Daddy.”

           “You don't mean that,” he said, still holding on to her arm.

           “Freddie you kissed another woman on our wedding night. Now let me go!”

           Clara pulled her arm out of his grip and lost her balance. She teetered on the edge of the top step and Freddie tried to catch her. Together they tumbled down the marble staircase. At the bottom, their necks were bent at the same unnatural angle. The angry color gone from her face.

           Charlotte sensed another presence. At the top of the stairs stood a woman Charlotte had only seen in aging photographs. The owner of the hotel, Charlotte's great, great, aunt surveyed the grisly scene, heartbreak etched on her face.

           I'm linking up with the Trifecta Challenge. Our task is to write a piece 33-333 words long inspired by the third definition of the word color.
3: complexion tint:

  a : the tint characteristic of good health

  b : blush

Charlotte's Inheritance

 

                   Charlotte parked her car and stared in wonder at her inheritance. The old hotel was magnificent, even its disrepair. Mother Nature had so overtaken the building that it looked as if it had grown out of the mountainside like all the other flora. The low hanging clouds surrounded it like ghosts.

                   The attorney had given her a key. She was surprised how easily the door opened. She expected to struggle because of swollen wood or rusted hinges. But the door swung freely as if some unseen caretaker had oiled the door in anticipation of her arrival.

photo from imgur.com

                   The carpets were discolored and mildewed, but the crystal chandelier still glittered and the marble columns still stood strong. There was no visible decay inside, only dust and neglect. Charlotte laid a hand on the banister of the grand staircase, remembering the story the lawyer had told her.

                   “The hotel had been an escape from the city for the young and prosperous after the Great War. The best jazz musicians played and the gin and whiskey flowed, even in the years of prohibition. Your great, great, aunt was a renowned hostess. The beautiful and wild of society flocked here. One evening, a newlywed bride drunk on good wishes and bathtub gin tripped on the hem of her dress. Her young husband tried to catch her, but they fell together, tangled in each others arms. The hotel was never the same after that. There were those who said it was haunted.”

                   “Is it?” Charlotte had asked.

                   “My dear,” the lawyer said after looking at her for a moment. “I don't hold with such nonsense. But who wants to dance and drink away their weekend in a place where such promise came to such a nasty ending.”

                   But Charlotte did hold with such nonsense. Indeed, she often relied on the unseen to guide her. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. She caught the faint whiff of lilies and gin, but it lasted only a moment.

                   “The hotel is yours Charlotte. We could find no other heirs,” The attorney said. “To keep or sell. There are other resorts in the area that would be interested in buying it. But I'd take a look if I were you. It is a very interesting old place.”

                   “Why didn't my great-aunt sell? Surely there have been offers over the years.”

                   “I couldn't say, my dear. Sometimes people have difficulty letting go of their past. Maybe that was the case with your aunt. Perhaps the answer lies in the hotel.”

                   Charlotte gazed up the cursed staircase wondering if she'd find any answers. A few faint notes of tenor saxophone floated on the draft that ruffled her hair.

                   “So it's like that, is it?” She said, proceeding up the stairs looking for answers. 

 This week Cam at Write on Edge gave us two beautiful photos of beautiful abandoned places to inspire our writing.

Whirly-Gig

  

                   I settle myself onto the brick wall for my coffee break. It's hard and a little too tall for me to get comfortable, but it feels good to be off my feet. I've been selling coffee and bagels since 6am. There are comfy chairs in the lobby and little cafe tables as well. But I don't feel right taking them up. There are people here with sick babies. They shouldn't have to hunt around for a good spot to rest. Besides, I like it here where I can see the whirly-gig. Someone told me it's really a kinetic sculpture or something like that, but I just call it the whirly-gig.

                   I don't watch the machine so much anymore. I've seen it so many times I have it memorized. I watch the kids who watch it. Some of them are real sick―their hair is falling out and they look too skinny. Some of them have big casts or bandages. But there is something about that whirly-gig. It makes them forget for a little while. They forget to be scared. They forget they're sick or injured. They forget they're in a hospital. They're just kids with their eyes wide open to watch the pool balls go up the little elevators and race down the ramps. They listen to the chimes clang and they giggle and cheer. Sometimes they pick their favorite color ball and follow its journey around the whirly-gig.

                   Sometimes I watch the parents too. They have too much on their minds to watch the whirly-gig. They have doctor's appointments to keep and prescriptions to fill and bills to pay. They stop in my shop  and buy a coffee for themselves and a treat for their kid. The lucky ones stop for a while and sit in those comfy chairs and cafe tables and watch their kids. For a while they forget about what brought them to Children's. They smile and watch their children watching the whirly-gig.

                   This is in response to two prompts this week. The folks at Trifecta gave us the word “lucky” to write about this week. Write on Edge gave us the word “wonder” and a video of a kinetic sculpture from Boston's Musem of Science called Archimedean Excogitation, by George Rhoads. We're fortunate enough to visit that museum pretty regularly and that exhibit is one of my sons' favorite things at the museum. When they watch it, I cannot help but think of another Rhoads piece that is in the center of Boston Children's Hospital. My son James had hand surgery a couple of summers ago and the sculpture provided a very welcome distraction for us.

Trifecta: Paging Doctor Mom

 

            I knew it wasn’t right. But I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what was wrong, so I called in an expert.

            “Well? What do you think Mom?” I asked.

            “It’s a little bland,” she said being polite. “What did you put in it?”

            “MacKenzie’s seasoning—just like you always did. I followed the directions. I don’t understand why it tastes like wallpaper paste.”

            “Oh Honey, I don’t follow the directions!”

            “You don’t?”

            “That little seasoning packet is just how you start out. This chili needs a doctor.”

            “A what?”

            “You know. Something to add some pizzazz. Let me see what you have here.”

            She rummaged through my meager pantry.

            “Here we go,” she said. “Oregano, chili powder... you don’t have any chipotle do you?”

            “No,” I said sitting on the step stool feeling like I was five-years-old. I wanted to surprise Nick with his favorite meal of chili, but the results weren’t what I was hoping for.

            “Don’t worry Sweetie. This may not win any chili cook-offs, but we’ll still make it tasty.”

“You always made this look easy,” I said.

“What looked easy?” she said looking astonished.

“Cooking! You just waved your magic spoon and there was this fabulous dinner on the table.”

“Sweetie, by the time you came along I had years of practice. I was a lousy cook when I was a newlywed. In the beginning, your poor father choked down more burnt dinners than I care to remember! Now,” she said as she stirred more spices into the pot. “I know you’ll have some good dark beer in the house. Pour in a bottle.”

“Won’t it thin it down to much.”

“Just turn the heat up, leave the cover off, and keep stirring. It will cook down. The flavor will be great.”

She began to put her coat on.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?”

“Of course Dear. Your young marriage will survive a bland meal or two, but a hovering mother-in-law is a different story!”

I’m linking up this week with the Trifecta Challenge. This week’s word was: DOCTOR (noun)

1

a : an eminent theologian declared a sound expounder of doctrine by the Roman Catholic Church —called also doctor of the church

b : a learned or authoritative teacher

c : a person who has earned one of the highest academic degrees (as a PhD) conferred by a university

d : a person awarded an honorary doctorate (as an LLD or Litt D) by a college or university

2

a : a person skilled or specializing in healing arts; especially :one (as a physician, dentist, or veterinarian) who holds an advanced degree and is licensed to practice

b : medicine man

3

a : material added (as to food) to produce a desired effect

b : a blade (as of metal) for spreading a coating or scraping a surface

The challenge calls for us to use the third definition of the word. My own mother used to use “doctor” as a verb as in “This sauce is bland. I’ll doctor it up with a half cup of red wine.” But I had never heard it used as a noun. 

Master Class: Trailing a Husband

 

            Conor always pictured himself reuniting estranged families and finding missing family heirlooms. He thought he was going to be the guy people went to when all else failed. He thought he was smarter than the police—more focused. Maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t. But the he’d never find out working cases like this. This job, like most of them lately was to find out if someone was cheating. Sometimes it was a spouse. Sometimes an insurance company or a boss. Dishonest men paid Conor’s rent.

            She was in pain by the time she came to Conor’s office, convinced Hubby was cheating. He was spending more and more time at the office. He had lost weight—started hitting the gym. He even started dressing in the latest styles. She was convinced it was a mid-life fling.

            So far the trail was cold. Hubby’s late nights really were at the office. If Hubby was meeting with a girl, Conor hadn’t figured out when. It was beginning to look like Conor was trailing the only guy in town with nothing to hide.

            Then on Friday, Hubby’s routine changed. Conor watched him board a cross-town bus at lunchtime. He felt like a safe cracker who—partly by luck—had sussed out the first digit in a lengthy, arduous combination. Maybe this was it. Maybe Hubby was on his way to a nooner.

            Conor followed the bus to a crumbling office building on the desperate side of town. Hubby boarded the elevator and hit number six. Conor took the stairs and beat the ancient elevator. He waited in the stairwell until he heard the elevator doors slide open and footsteps pass. He opened the door as Hubby disappeared into the only occupied office on this floor. The door was stenciled with the name Sylvia O’Brien, Private Investigator.

            “Dammit,” Conor whispered reading the name. He moved closer to the door to listen to the conversation from inside.

            “On top of everything,” Hubby’s voice floated through the closed door. “I think I’m being followed. First Delores is cheating on me and now I’m being followed. I even took a bus to get here to shake the guy. I don’t know. Maybe I’m paranoid.”

            “First of all Mr. Landon,” said the detective with well-practiced patience. “We don’t know she’s cheating on you. I haven’t found a shred of evidence to suggest it.”

            “But all the hours at the gym, the nice dinners, the new hair... why is she trying so hard?”

            “I don’t know Mr. Landon. I think maybe it’s time to stop talking to me and start talking to your wife.”

            “Just because you haven’t proved it yet, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. And I know someone’s following me. I bet he’s right outside this door!”

            Before Conor could move, Landon had swung the door open and pushed him up against the wall.

            “See! I knew I was being followed. Why the hell are you following me?”

            “Mr. Landon, calm down. We’ll get to the bottom...”

            Sylvia’s voiced trailed off as she came into the hallway. She was just as beautiful as Conor remembered. She had pulled her soft blond curls into a bun and wrapped her perfect curves in a no-nonsense gray suit. But she was still the same woman he remembered.

            “Conor? What the hell are you doing here?”

            “You know this guy?” Landon gripped Conor tighter.

            “Know him? I used to be married to him. Let him go please Mr. Landon. He’s harmless.”

            Landon released his grip and Conor tried to pull himself back together.

            “Why don’t we have a seat in my office and sort this all out?” Sylvia said, taking charge of the situation.

            Inside the closed door, Sylvia gestured for the men to sit.

            “Well?” she said looking at Conor. “You’re on my turf now Conor. What are you doing here?"

            “Landon’s not paranoid. I was following him.”

            “Why? What gives you the right?”

            “Mr. Landon, Conor is a private investigator like me. We used to be in business together.”

            “Someone hired you to follow me?” Landon looked outraged.

            “Why not? You obviously hired my wife...”

            “Ex-wife,” Sylvia corrected.

            “Whatever. You hired Sylvia to follow someone else.”

            “That’s different. I just want to save my marriage.”

            “So does your wife Mr. Landon.”

            “What the hell do you know about it?”

            “She hired me. Delores thinks your having an affair. Sylvia was right. She’s a bitch, but she’s right. It’s time for you and Delores to talk to each other instead of us.”

            Landon stood up and walked towards the door.

            “I guess I’d better go home.”

            “That’s a good idea Mr. Landon. I’ll send you your bill,” Sylvia said.

            He nodded absently and left.

            Sylvia reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and poured some into two paper cups and handed one to Conor.

            “Well, I never figured we’d be working cases together again Conor.”

            “Me neither,” he took a long slow swallow of the bourbon. “I hate cases like this though.”

            “Same here. Although that one worked out okay, didn’t it?”

            “I guess. Maybe we could work together again.”

            Sylvia choked on the bourbon.

            “Are you nuts? Our business crumbled.”

            “Sure, our P.I. business.”

            “What else would do?”

            “Well, we just saved a marriage, didn’t we?”

            “I suppose.”

            Conor raised his glass in a toast.

            “I can see it now, O’Brien and O’Brien, Marriage Counselors.”

 

            I’m linking up this week with Master Class over at Sinistral Scribblings (or that was the plan before I realize I was working with last week's prompt!). Our prompt for this week was to use this quote from Lev Grossman’s The Magicians, “He felt like a safe cracker who—partly by luck—had sussed out the first digit in a lengthy, arduous combination.” We were not to use it to begin or end the story. 

Trifecta: Exhausting Kindness

                    “May I?” Mandy asked, startling a man sitting on the aisle next to a vacant window seat.

                   He gripped his duffel bag close to his chest and shifted his legs so she could get by without saying anything. Relieved to get off her feet, Mandy ignored the way he made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

                   She began re-reading about the second trimester in What to Expect When You're Expecting. At fourteen weeks, Mandy was still waiting for the reduction in fatigue the book promised. Finding no comfort in the book, she gazed out the window. In the reflection, she noticed her seatmate looked like he was about to cry.

                   “Are you okay?” she asked.

                   He turned his head and stared through her. She cursed her budding maternal instincts, wishing she hadn't asked.

                   “I'm sorry. You just looked... I don't know. Sad? I didn't mean to be nosey.”

                   “Don’t be sorry. I am sad. You're the first person to ask—a total stranger. No one at work asked. None of my family. I feel invisible.”

                   “That's terrible,” she said.

                   “Yes.” he faced forward again. “You're very kind.”

                   “Thank you,” she said and opened up her book and pretended to read.

                   “You're going to be a great mom.”

                   “Thank you.”

                   “My mother would exhaust all options before asking me about my feelings. She'd buy me books or send me to a doctor. I think she was scared of feelings.”

                   Mandy didn’t know what to say.

                   “It's my turn to be sorry,” he said. “You were kind to me and now I've made you uncomfortable.”

                   “It's okay. Sometimes you just need someone to talk to I guess.”

                   “Yes. Thank you for listening. You've helped me more than you know,” he stood up, holding tightly to his duffel bag. “I'm getting off at the next stop. Enjoy your book.”

                   As the train pulled out of the station, she watched him walk down the platform and throw his bag into a trashcan.

I'm linking up with this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. This week's word is:

EXHAUST (transitive verb)
1a : to consume entirely : use up <exhausted our funds in a week>
  b : to tire extremely or completely <exhausted by overwork>
  c : to deprive of a valuable quality or constituent <exhaust a photographic developer>
2a : to draw off or let out completely
  b : to empty by drawing off the contents; specifically : to create a vacuum in
3a : to consider or discuss (a subject) thoroughly or completely  
  b : to try out the whole number of <exhausted all the possibilities>
 

Karen: Silent Prayer

This story picks up where I left off here...

                   Karen slid into the cold oaken pew and gazed up at the jewel-like light streaming through her favorite stained glass window. The leftover smell of Sunday's incense brought her back to her childhood days of seeking refuge under the marble arches of St. Edward's. She had come one night as a child when her parents were fighting. It was raining and she found the door unlocked. She had come to Mass hundreds of time with her parents. But the church was different at night. The quiet was absolute and eery, yet comforting. It seemed more sacred without organ music and other people.  Karen found peace and space to have faith in this dimly lit sanctuary.

                  When Peggy died, Karen stopped going to Mass. That was something they did together. With her mother gone, Karen only prayed in solitude. She knelt and closed her eyes and couldn't think of what to pray for. For Henry? That he might leave his blushing bride for her. Surely that wasn't a very Christian thing to wish for. For her own pain? She admonished herself to stop the self-pity. For the wisdom to move on? That. That she decided was what she needed most on this night. She made the sign of the cross and walked up the aisle. She nodded absently to a young man who passed her.

                   “Karen?” he asked.

                   She turned and looked at the skinny red-haired man. He was familiar, but she didn't know why.

                   “Yes. My name is Karen. I'm so sorry, I just can't place you.”

                   “Oh, it's alright. It's been a long time. We grew up on the same street...”

                   “Danny? Danny O'Neill? Is that you?”

                   “Ah, you do remember!”

                   “It's good to see you Danny. Are you well?”

                   “I am. I'm happy to be back. I've been assigned to St. Edward's.”
                   She took in his somber clothes for a moment.

                   “You're a priest now?”

                   “Not yet. I'm a deacon. I'll take Holy Orders when I finish my studies.”

                   Karen smiled. Danny was an unlikely priest. He fought constantly with other children when they were younger. Maybe that would help him. This neighborhood had gotten a little rougher since then.

                   “How about you Karen? How's life treating you?”

                   She shrugged. Where to begin?

                   “Oh you know. Ups and downs like everyone else.”

                   “How's your mother?”

                   “She passed away last spring.”

                   “I'm sorry for your loss.”

                   “Thank you,” she said, grateful he hadn't added “She's with Jesus” or “It's all a part of God's plan.”

                   “Listen, I was just going to grab a cup of coffee at the diner. Will you join me? I'd love to catch up.”

                   “Is that allowed? I mean, now that you're...”

                   He laughed.

                   “It's just coffee with an old friend. You'll just have to fight the urge to seduce a man of the cloth.”

                   “Ah, there's the Danny I remember,” she grinned. “Why not? It's been a strange day. I'll end it on a date with a deacon.”

                    My latest Karen story is in response to a Write on Edge prompt that asked us to draw inspiration from the picture of the stained glass window you see above. You can read more about Karen here.