A Mixed Bag
- by Richard F. West
Table of Contents
page
1. A Promise Is a Promise……………………….2
2. Fairies……………..........................................10
3. Rain…………………………………………..16
4. A Toast to Dear Old Dad……………….........24
5. A Rose By Any Other Name………………...32
6. You Slay Me……………………………........38
7. Things in the Dark…………………………...48
8. The Hunters………………………………….54
9. Misdeal………………………………………63
10. Upstairs……………………………………..72
11. Parasites……………………………….........90
12. The Visitor…………………………….........98
13. The Dark…………………………………..110
14. Diane………………………………………117
15. Only Shadows……………………………..136
16. The Visit………………………………......144
17. Upon a Summer’s Eve…………………….154
18. The Handout………………………………165
19. The World Inside………………………….183
20. Rockers……………………………………207
21. Daddy’s Little Girl………………………...209
22. Garage Sale……………………………......214
23. Old Bones………………………………….219
24. The Solution……………………………......232
A Promise is a Promise
- by Richard F. West
It was an accident. I mean, I didn’t do it purposely. These things just happen sometimes. Everybody makes mistakes. It’s only human. Nobody’s perfect. After all, you can’t expect a person to never make an error in judgment ‘cause people aren’t machines that automatically do things without distractions of any kind. People think, and when they’re doing things sometimes their minds wander a little. Everybody’s like that, and it’s that characteristic that probably causes most accidents that aren’t blamed on God.
What I’m trying to say is that this was one of those types of accidents. Carelessness. Pure, simple carelessness. I just wasn’t paying total attention to what I was doing. My mind was troubled with other things. It’s easy, especially when you do the same job day in and day out, to let your mind concentrate on something important while your hands perform out of habit.
You know what I’m saying is true. You’ve done it before. So has everyone else. It’s a normal human act, and a common one at that. Especially on unimportant jobs.
A baker, or a street cleaner probably does it most of the time. But I’m sure that doctors doing an operation don’t do it. Well, at least not too much anymore, ‘cause you don’t hear too many patients walking around with tools and things inside them.
Anyway, cooking is not a dangerous job. Ask any housewife how easy it is to let your brains work on other things while you cook. Especially when you’ve been cooking meals as long as I have. And while you’re at it, ask them how many mistakes they make.
You men would be surprised to know how many meals you would not have eaten had you known what went on in the kitchen. Ask your wives how many times they patched the pie that the cat walked through, or dunked the sleeve of their dirty bathrobe into the stew, or dropped a grimy potholder into the soup, or rescued the pork chops from the jaws of the dog, or kept right on cooking after your little boy sneezed into the mashed potatoes.
More accidents happen in the kitchen than, I would say, most any place else, because the job’s a boring drag, and a person’s got to daydream or she’d go nuts.
You men should try it for a few years, and then you’d know. When the most interesting thing that happens in your day is pulling a splinter from the finger of your screaming four-year-old without anesthetic, then you’ll know what boring is.
All through our lives from the time we were little girls, you men tried to brainwash us with dolls and toy stoves and all that so we’d really be conditioned to like that kind of stuff and find it interesting. Well, let me tell you something. The brainwashing is a flop, and the job is one great big bore. Look around at the faces of all the middle-aged women and you’ll see what a failure your conditioning was, ‘cause I’m not just speaking for myself. The job’s boring, boring, boring.
And when you’re bored you have to daydream, you have to make believe you’re someplace exotic doing some really fascinating things with other fascinating people, or else your mind deteriorates to a vegetable.
Anyway, that’s how it happened - a pure accident, nothing more. After all, why would I do something like that on purpose? I mean, you don’t do such a thing as that without a reason, and it’s got to be a real good one. And what reason would I have?
Yeah, I know what people said about Henry - that he was a mean cruel person, and that he treated me badly in front of our friends and all. But I knew him better than they did. After all I was married to him for sixteen years.
Besides, he had a violent temper that was difficult for him to control. That’s why he slapped me in the face at the Knights of Columbus party. I knew it wasn’t really him. He had such a mean temper that once when he was angry at me he strangled Tootsie, our cat. I should say, my cat, because he never liked the animal. I also spent two months with my arm in a cast, because he hit me with a chair and broke my arm. But that’s beside the point anyway because that’s not enough of a reason to kill anybody.
No. And neither is the hundred and eighty thousand dollars in life insurance, though God knows how nice it will be to have it to spend. Henry kept most of his money for himself and gave me a small amount to run the house. I used to have to steal some from his trousers to get enough to buy myself some clothes or I’d have been walking around in rags. Lucky for me he never caught me going through his pockets, even though he suspected that I was doing it and tried hard to catch me at it. Once he gave me a beating just ‘cause he was so mad at not being able to catch me doing it.
Anyway, you don’t kill a person simply because they’re not perfect. Everybody’s got faults. A life’s a sacred thing, that’s what I believe. And you don’t go killing somebody simply because he’s not always on his best behavior.
Let me tell you, troubles can bring out the bad in people. And my Henry had troubles. Oh, not normal average everyday troubles like most people. His troubles were special, and it started to affect him and me. He was one of those people that was always having accidents. More so than most. In fact I was just an instrument of the fates bringing him another accident. But at the rate he was going he was bound to die soon.
He wasn’t having all those accidents before, though. It started only a couple of years back, shortly after I talked him into taking out the life insurance policy. One night he got out of bed and was going downstairs and tripped over the cat - Tootsie, and fell with an awful crashing and banging down the whole flight of steps. It was a miracle that he wasn’t killed instead of just breaking a collar bone. For two and a half months he was all strapped up before the bones finally knit together.
I think the fall affected his mind a little, ‘cause he started babbling that someone pushed him down those steps. But there was no one in the house except him and me. Yes, his mind started going then. What do they call it? Paranoid, or something? That was the first sign of it, anyway.
Right after his shoulder healed he had the car accident. And believe me, that was some accident. The Ford was totally demolished. The only that was left from the car was the payments. And, somehow, I tell you it was truly the hand of the Lord, he walked away from it without so much as a scratch. Even the police found it hard to believe that anyone could have lived through that crash.
To have come down that hill with no brakes, they said he must have been doing ninety when he went into that curve and spun off the road into the woods. It was his own fault that the brakes didn’t work. He was tinkering around under the car the night before and he must have broken the hydraulic line or whatever they call it.
Henry wasn’t the careful type, but he should have known better. Even the book he had on auto mechanics showed how easy the line could be broken. He swore he hadn’t touched the brake lines, but the police said that’s what happened. After that he wouldn’t drive the car, and I had to drive him everywhere. He brooded a lot from then on.
Let’s see, I think the fire was next. Yes, that was it. He was really lucky there, the angels were surely looking out for him. You see, it was the neighbors who saw the flames and called the fire department. I was at the movies that evening with my mother. We went a lot to the movies together ‘cause she lived alone and we always got along good.
Anyway, the neighbors were supposed to be away for the weekend, and I had seen them leave earlier, just before I went to meet my mother. Fortunately for Henry they had come back to the house because they missed their flight - they had forgotten their tickets or something. And they saw the fire, mostly smoke, coming from the bedroom window, and they called the fire department. When the firemen broke into Henry’s bedroom they found him stone drunk and the bed on fire. Smoking in bed, the cigarette had fallen from his hand as he dozed in his drunken stupor, and it set the bed on fire.
He swore he didn’t have anything to drink but a cup of coffee that I had given him, even though the empty liquor bottle was lying on the floor and the room reeked of alcohol mixed with smoke. And he didn’t light a cigarette, but everyone knew he smoked like a chimney.
You know it took them four hours to revive him, that’s how drugged he was with the liquor. He was only burned a little on his hand.
That’s when we went to see the psychiatrist. He became worried because he didn’t remember these things, and the psychiatrist said that he secretly wanted to commit suicide, and therefore, his mind purposely forgot things it did to try and kill him. That really upset him, and the doctor started to psychoanalyze him to try to find out why he wanted to kill himself.
Henry spent a lot of money on those session, but they didn’t seem to help ‘cause he blew half the house apart when he tried it again.
I was at the movies again with my mother when it happened. Somehow a burner on the gas stove had been left on, or turned on - the doctor said. Henry must have turned it on just after I left, and then his mind forgot it.
Well, a couple of hours later, Henry came downstairs. Very sleepy he was ‘cause he’d been drinking again, and he was gonna make himself a cup of coffee. He plugged in the electric coffee maker, and while it heated up, he sat down at the table and lit a cigarette - at least he tried to. How he never came to noticing the heavy smell of gas, the police said was because he’d been in it for so long - two hours, they said, and his nose had gotten used to the smell. Also, the drink had a little to do with it.
Anyway, all he said he remembered was the match striking a spark. The explosion blew the wall of the house off and knocked out windows a block away. The police found him unconscious on the lawn.
They couldn’t explain why he wasn’t killed. They were real friendly by now, calling us by our first names and all, since they were seeing us so often. Anyway, as I said, they couldn’t explain why he wasn’t killed. He’d been thrown over thirty feet from the house.
He didn’t get off without some payment, though. Much of the hair was burned off his face, and he suffered burns on the exposed parts of his body. He was a sight, I tell you, with no eyebrows and no hair on his head but for a black stubble.
The psychiatrist wanted Henry to commit himself to a sanitarium for his own protection. Henry called the man a crackpot, and said the doctor should commit himself and save his patients a lot of unnecessary grief. Needles to say, Henry didn’t go back to the psychiatrist again, though he might be alive today if he had taken the man’s advice.
From then on he really began acting crazy, and with no hair on his head and face he certainly looked the part. He really was a sight. But, I said that, didn’t I.
Well, he spent most of his time in the house, carefully peering around for the person that was trying to kill him, cause now he was convinced there was someone out to do him in. I tried to tell him it was all nonsense, but he was too far gone to listen to me anymore - not that he ever really did. But the hair dryer accident really clinched it. Boy did he go crazy then. I came away from that one with a black eye, swollen out lip and bruises where I can’t show you.
He was taking a bath and I was in the bathroom with him, drying my hair with one of those hand electric dryers, when it slipped from my hand and fell into the tub full of water. I never saw the man move so fast. I swear he was out of that tub before the dryer hit the water. Again, though, he was lucky, ‘cause the electric cord was too short and pulled from the wall, or he’d have been a burnt match.
Well, I don’t have to tell you that he was mad. But somehow, a naked man looks more silly than menacing, and he was stomping and shouting all wet and pink from the hot bath. I made the mistake of laughing. I mean, I couldn’t help myself, he looked so dopey. That’s when he beat me. Can’t say as I blame him totally. Nobody likes to be laughed at when they’re angry.
But, I tell you, from then on he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Now he thought I was the one trying to kill him. He stopped looking for his mysterious stranger, and began watching me, and he didn’t sleep either. That can be a little hard for a body to handle with a crazy man peering at you where ever you go.
When my mother came to call, it was most distressing having him sneaking around in the shadows. My mother said that I should have him put away. I told her that I wasn’t about to desert Henry just cause he was having a bad time of it. Just like I wouldn’t want him running out on me if I was in trouble. After all, I did take a vow for better or worse, and I stick to my word.
Besides, I didn’t have enough money to pay for such a thing properly. And with Henry out of work - he’d been let go after he stopped going to the office for awhile - there wasn’t likely to be any money coming in. No, I told her, Henry and I would make it together until death do us part, like we promised each other.
No sleeping and all that worrying wears a body down. Soon Henry was a bleary-eyed zombie stalking around the house. I tell you, he didn’t look like you’d enjoy meeting him suddenly on a dark night. He sure needed to get away from things for a little while, I tried to tell him.
It took a lot of patience, which I have plenty of, always had, but I finally talked him into going to the city - New York City, for a little fun. Maybe dinner and a movie, or something. We had to go by train, ‘cause Henry wouldn’t trust me in the car anymore.
The station where we had to get the train has a raised platform all concrete and fancy brick. We’re standing there in our best clothes watching the train coming thundering into the station, and suddenly Henry’s flying off the platform down toward the tracks.
I’m telling you, that man had more luck than one person deserves. He didn’t die! Can you believe it! Never heard of nobody falling in front of a train and living before. The engine hit him before he fell all the way and knocked him clear under the platform. Broke both legs, one arm, and fractured his skull, he did. By the time they finished wrapping him in bandages he looked like one of them Egyptian mummies.
He was four months mending. And during that time when I went to see him at the hospital, all he said to me was, “Did you do it, Anna? Did you push me?” He didn’t outright accuse me because the skull fracture knocked his memory about and he couldn’t recall anything about the accident.
When they released him he was still in a bad way and had to use two canes when he walked, and he could only walk for a short time before he had to rest. He was taking medicine for the pain, and as he got better at walking, he would go down to the drugstore and pick up the medicine himself. I never searched him or anything, so I didn’t know when he bought the rat poison.
The druggist had said that Henry told him I wanted the rat poison, but that wasn’t true. We didn’t have any trouble with rats, so why would I have asked him to get it? With Henry’s trying to kill himself, I wouldn’t have kept that stuff around the house.
Well, as I said, cooking accidents happen. They said Henry ate enough of those cookies to put away two cows and a horse. His luck couldn’t hold forever, and it finally ran out on him. As the psychiatrist said at the inquest, Henry was out to do himself in and he was a very persistent man.
That’s my plane they’re calling, gentlemen, so I must be going. Some friends are going to meet me at the airport in Miami. I’m to stay with them until I can find a nice little house to buy. It’ll be so pleasant to live where it never gets cold. Now you please be nice to me in your newspapers. Show my good side in all those pictures you took, and don’t say nasty things about my cooking.
Bye!
The End
Fairies
- by Richard F. West
Melissa had decided she was going to ask him today. She had heard the older kids talking about him a couple of days ago in school. They didn’t know she had heard them. And she hadn’t let on that she had. And she didn’t dare ask them any questions about it. Older kids didn’t like little kids. And didn’t like talking to them.
What they had said about him bothered her. She’d thought about it a lot since then. Worried on it, her mother would say. And now she had to know if they were lying or not.
Instead of walking past his house, she turned into the short walk, and with a determined step she followed it up to the porch. Her heart pounded because this was a brave act, and she was afraid. But she had to know.
He was sitting there in his rocking chair rocking back and forth just like always. When she saw him, she was suddenly frightened. It wasn’t easy going up to an adult and asking them questions. Even an adult that she saw every day and waved to him as she walked back and forth to school. He always said hello, and smiled. But she had never really talked to him beyond that.
“Well, hello there little girl,” he smiled.
Up close he looked older and skinnier than he did from the sidewalk. And his gray hair was all wispy, and blown around his head.
Her determination to know was stronger than her fear of him. “Hi, Mr. Burns,” she said hesitantly, cautiously. She knew his name because everyone on the block knew his name. He was out on the porch just about every day since she could remember.
“This is indeed an honor,” he said. “Don’t get many visitors. Care to sit awhile and talk with me? I can get you something to drink. Lemonade, maybe?”
“No, thank you.” She really would have liked lemonade, but her mother frowned on her taking anything from people. Even a drink.
He nodded. “You can pull over that chair there and sit down, if you like.”
She looked at the chair then decided against it. She didn’t think she would be there that long. Trouble was she didn’t quite know how to ask him about what she needed to know.
“So, you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“My name’s Melissa.”
“Well, Melissa, from the look on your face, it’s clear to me that you got something on your mind.” He was still smiling at her. “So, what is it?”
“Are you a fairy?” It came out so suddenly it surprised her.
He stopped rocking, the smile jumped from his face, and he frowned at her. The sudden change in his face made her step back in fear. Then he started to laugh. It was a weak old person’s laugh that sounded like ‘hee hee hee hee.” It was genuine humor and not threatening, and it said to her she had nothing to fear.
“Now who told you that?” he smiled, starting the rocking chair going again.
“I heard some kids talking at school.”
Then he shook his head, all serious. “They weren’t supposed to know. It’s a secret that only a couple of people know. Somebody must have talked when they shouldn’t have.”
Now her eyes grew wider. “You are a fairy!”
“Ssh. Not so loud. We don’t want to shout it to the world. And you got to promise you won’t tell anybody else.”
“A REAL fairy?” she said in a hard whisper.
He nodded. “I guess you could say it that way.”
She couldn’t believe it. A real fairy! Then her mind flooded with questions. The questions had been spinning around in her head since she had heard those older kids talking.
“Do you have wings? Do you fly?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t need them no more. Used to fly around a lot when I was younger. But when those airplanes came along, they were more comfortable to use than flying with my wings. I mean, think about it. When you are in an airplane, the rain don’t get to you. I remember when there were times I’d get soaked through to the skin flying with my own wings through some rainstorm. And times it was so cold up there. Nope. Was real inconvenient, I tell you.
“Had them wings removed when airplanes came along. Made things a lot easier.”
“Before airplanes?” She’d heard that there was a time before airplanes, but didn’t really understand that. Airplanes, television, computers and all that stuff had been there for all the time she could remember. So, before airplanes must have been a very long time ago. “How old are you?” He looked very old.
“Well, I can’t rightly say exactly. But I’m a lot older than anybody you know.”
“I thought fairies didn’t get old.”
“Well, that’s just a…” He chuckled. “…fairy tale.” Then he laughed that ‘hee hee hee’ laugh.
“So, you can’t fly anymore?”
He stopped rocking, leaned toward her and spoke in a secretive tone. “I can still fly a little. Wings are for long distance and doing fancy stuff in the air. I fly around here a little when I’m sure no one will see me.”
“Why don’t you want people to see you?”
“It’s a rule for us fairies. Nobody must know we exist.”
The question was still on her face.
“Well, I’m sure those children who were talking about me, were not saying nice things, now were they?”
“No.” She didn’t understand a lot of the things they were saying, but she remembered their tone. They were nasty and laughing.
He leaned back and started rocking. “See, a lot of people are afraid of things they don’t understand. I don’t want people to be afraid of me. There are enough things in the world to fear. I don’t want to be another one on that list. That’s why you mustn’t tell anyone about me. You understand? This is just between you and me.”
She nodded that she understood. “Yeah. But what about those boys at school?” It had been a group of older boys that she’d heard talking. “They know, and they’re telling people.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about them. Nobody will believe them. I’ll make sure of that.”
Now she was puzzled. “How?”
“I’ll put a magic spell on them. Then, nobody will believe anything they have to say no matter how much they swear they’re telling the truth.”
“You can do magic, too?” That was another of the questions she’d been mulling over since she’d heard.
He nodded. “Yep. But I don’t do much of it, because it’s powerful stuff and could hurt people.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “I never knew anybody who could do real magic.”
“Well, I can give you a little demonstration, if you like? Nothing serious that would scare you. You want to see some magic?”
She nodded.
“Okay.” He struggled to stand. “Just wait here a moment. I’ll be right back.” He walked into the house.
When he came back out he was wearing a nice black jacket. “I feel better doing magic when I’m dressed nice.” Then he put his fingers on his chin and looked up like he was thinking. “Now let’s see. What should I do that won’t scare you?” Then his eyes lit up, and he smiled at her. “I know. Something fun and not too hard on my powers.”
From a pocket of his jacket he took out a quarter. “You know what this is?”
She nodded. “Twenty-five cents.” She knew her money.
“Right. Now watch.” He put the quarter in his other hand, and closed a fist around it. Then he frowned hard at that hand for a long moment. Finally he smiled. “That should do it.” He held out his empty hand, then opened the fist and dropped the quarter into it. Then a dime and a nickel. “That’s one way to make money,” he grinned.
Her eyes were wide. She couldn’t believe what she’d just seen. “Gosh. Mommy says that Daddy has to go to work every day to make money for us to live. I wish my Daddy was a fairy. Then he wouldn’t have to go to work. He could stay at home with me all the time and play.”
“I’m sure he would like that, too. But fairies can’t be daddies.” He shrugged. “It’s one of the rules of being a fairy.”
“Can you teach my Daddy to do magic like that?”
“Nope. Sorry. That’s another rule.”
She frowned her disappointment. “Fairies have a lot of rules.”
“Yep. And if I don’t follow those rules, I could lose my powers. I don’t want that to happen. I’ve been a fairy too long. I don’t know any other way to be.”
He shook his right arm and a thin black cane appeared in his hand, the cane about as tall as she was. He smiled. “I’m having too much fun being a fairy.” He tapped the cane on the floor to show it was solid. Then with the flick of his wrist the cane disappeared.
He flicked his other hand and a tiny red ball appeared in between his fingers. He waved his hand again, and there was a second ball. Again, and there was a third ball. One last wave and all the balls disappeared.
He stuck his right hand straight out, turned it around and there was a deck of cards in his palm. Melissa knew what cards were. She played a game with them with her Daddy.
He spread his hand and the cards became a wide fan. Then he made a motion to throw the cards in the air, but they disappeared.
She just couldn’t believe it. It was amazing.
“Now, I think it’s time you got home. I’m sure your mother is worried that you haven’t arrived home from school. She’s right now afraid something may have happened to you. Remember, there are plenty of things in the world to be afraid of. We don’t want to make people afraid of things they shouldn’t have to be afraid of.”
“Okay, Mr. Burns.”
“You can call me Danny. But only when there are no adults around. They might not like that.”
“Okay.” She didn’t understand why adults wouldn’t like her calling him Danny. But then she didn’t understand a lot of the things adults didn’t like.
“And you’re welcome to come by and sit with me anytime you want.”
When she got home her mother was annoyed that she had come home late. Melissa told her she had stopped to look at the flowers in Mr. Burns’s yard. One of the first things Melissa had learned as a child was how to lie. And she was good at it.
The next day in school, they had assembly. That was where her class and the other first grade class got together in the gym for something special. There was a low stage at one end of the gym.
Sometimes some adult got up and talked to them. Sometimes there was a movie. Sometimes one of the teachers would show pictures projected onto the movie screen and talk about the pictures. This time was different.
A man dressed in a fancy black suit came out on the small stage. The jacket looked a lot like the one Mr. Burns had worn. He said he was a magician. And he did a lot of magic tricks just like Mr. Burns. Danny.
After the show they all lined up to shake the magician’s hand and thank him, and tell him how much they liked the show.
Melissa stepped up to him, and he bent down to shake her hand. She took his hand in hers, then stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. “I know you’re a fairy. But I won’t tell.”
The End
Rain
by Richard F. West
He always hated the rain. Too inactive. Too contemplative. Nothing to do but sit around and think. And that was the last thing he wanted to do. Thinking made him edgy. He wanted to be doing something so he wouldn’t have to think. So the past would stay buried where it was supposed to be instead of coming alive to haunt him, to torment him.
This was the third day in a row for the rain, and he was about to go nuts. Life goes on, they say. But only on sunny days, he’d add. It was the sun that drove life forward, that moved a body on in time. The rainy days set all that progress back, and the past would once again assert itself. Damn.
On days like this he didn’t know whether to cry or kill himself. Crying usually won out, because he didn’t have to get off the rocker to do it. But one day he’d feel bad enough to get off the rocker, find the revolver, load it, and stick it in his mouth. Today wasn’t one of those days. So he settled on crying to ease the pain the past brought with it.
Being alone didn’t help him any. Martha had gone two years ago. There was nobody to complain to, nobody to argue with - sometimes arguing was better than thinking. For both of them. Martha felt the pain as much as he did, that was for sure. But they never spoke about it. Libby was missing for fifteen years now, but the pain never got better, the loss never easier.
It was the not knowing that made the pain stay strong and steady. Working on the farm made it all fade away. And he and Martha worked the farm hard until the day she died. Her heart gave out, and the good Lord took her right away. A blessing, the pastor said. He agreed. She wouldn’t have to suffer that pain any longer. Now it was all his. Till the day he, too, died, he guessed.
A police car moved off the road and splashed through the mud on the dirt road that led to his house. He watched it come and was thankful for something to take his mind off the past. The car pulled to a stop near the foot of the stairs to the porch. The window on the driver’s side rolled down and the deputy turned to look at him.
“Mornin, Able,” the deputy said.
“Mornin, Beachem.”
“Sheriff’d like to see you downtown, you got a minute.”
Able nodded. “I got a minute.” He rose from the rocker with the aching effort of an old man. He was seventy-four, but his bones and muscles complained that he was much older. “What’s it all about?”
“Dunno. He called me on the radio and told me to get you.”
“You want me to take my pick-up?”
“Nope. You ride with me.” Deputy Beachem grinned. “First class, if that’s okay with you?”
“You bring me back?”
“Wouldn’t be very neighborly, me bringin you downtown and not bringin you back.”
“I need to bring anything?”
“Didn’t tell me you should bring anything.”
“Guess I’m ready, then.”
Able stepped off the porch, the rain putting dark spots on his jeans and plaid shirt, and puttering little drops on the brim of his hat. Deputy Beachem leaned over and opened the passenger door of the police car. Able stepped around the puddles, over to the other side of the car and got in, closing the door behind him.
Deputy Beachem threw the car into gear and maneuvered back up the muddy stretch to the road.
“One day I’m gonna put in a decent road to the house,” Able said. He was embarrassed by the muddy rutted driveway.
Deputy Beachem nodded.
“Just always seems somethin else is more important to do when I think of it.”
“It’s always the way,” Beachem said.
They were both looking out at the road in front of them, neither turning to speak to the other. The rain drumming on the roof of the patrol car.
“No idea what this is about?”
“Nope. No clue.”
“Peculiar of him. Maybe he needs another hand in the card game? Must be pretty quiet around here with all this rain?”
Beachem nodded. “Enough to drive a man nuts. Rained an awful lot the last couple weeks. Sure be nice to see the sun soon.”
Small talk finished they drove the rest of the way in silence.
The downtown that Beachem referred to was four square blocks with buildings on either side. The sheriff’s office was nothing special, another building among the small cluster. Except it had “Sheriff’s Office” painted on the glass front. Beachem parked in front of the office. Both men got out of the patrol car and bent under the rain to the front door. Beachem opened the front door and Able went in before him.
Inside, the office was a wood room with a half dozen wood desks, a couple of cork boards on the wall decorated with wanted posters and other paper. The sheriff got up from the far desk and came toward them. He was a big broad man with big hands and a large tough face. His tan uniform fit a little snug.
“Mornin Able,” the Sheriff said.
“Mornin, Sheriff.” Able had known the sheriff for over twenty-years. During all that time, even when he was investigating their case, he always referred to him only as sheriff.
“You need me, sheriff?” Beachem asked.
“Nope. Go protect the people.”
Beachem nodded, turned and left.
“So what’s this all about?”
“Ain’t gonna talk around this, Able. You know they’re draining the marsh over north of Peckmen’s farm? Gonna put up some sort of water pumping station.”
“Yep. Heard some about it. Must of found some god awful stuff at the bottom of that old swamp.”
“Yeah.” The sheriff chuckled. “Found out where all the garbage’s been going the past hundred years.” Then his face became serious. “Found the remains of a body, too.” He looked hard at Able.
Able froze with the sudden realization and his throat tightened like somebody stuffed a sock down it. “Libby?”
“Don’t know for sure, Able. Mostly bones and pieces of clothing.” He looked embarrassed to have to ask Able the next question. “Thought you could take a look at it. See if you could recognize anything. If you’d a mind to, that is?”
Able couldn’t speak. This moment was too long in coming. He and Martha had long ago given up on finding out anything more about Libby. Too many years with no news meant there would never be any news. The no news left them to hope that she had just run away, and maybe someday they would hear from her again. After years with not hearing from her they gave up on ever hearing from her. The thought that she was dead was there in his thoughts all the time like a gray ghost, but he avoided looking at it. He preferred to believe that she had run off, run away from them, spitting hate behind her as she did.
A fourteen-year-old rebel needs not much of an excuse to hate her parents and leave for a better place. She had been trouble, no doubt about that. A body too old for her young mind to handle, but old enough for all the young stallions to fondle. The police saw her more than Martha and Able did. They’d had the pastor pray with her and them until there were no more prayers he could say. She was an embarrassment to Able and Martha and they weren’t her parents. Their daughter, Betty Jean, died giving Libby life. They took the child and tried to raise her proper with the Lord. It didn’t take.
Able let out a long sad breath. “Guess it has to be done.”
The sheriff nodded. “Everything’s over at Doc Martin’s.”
“Let’s get it done.” Able turned and walked out the front door. The sheriff grabbed his hat from a peg near the door and followed just behind him.
“Maybe this way is best,” Able said more to himself. “She brought so much shame on Martha and me. Her running away like that made the shame worse. No one at the church would look us in the eye. Maybe her being killed would be better.”
“Didn’t say she was killed.” The sheriff looked at Able as they walked through the rain. Water dripped from the brims of their hats.
Able stopped and looked at the sheriff. “You saying she wasn’t?”
The sheriff shook his head. “No. I suspect it could have been. Also could have been self inflicted.”
Able’s eyes grew wide. “You saying she suicided herself?”
The sheriff made a face and a motion with his head that said it was a possibility. “Coulda been an accident, too. Let’s first see if you can recognize any of the remains. Then we’ll talk about how it mighta happened.”
They resumed walking. “Killin herself would be a worse shame. It is good that Martha ain’t here to bear that.”
When they stepped into Doc Martin’s office, Constance, the nurse, ushered Able and the sheriff into a room at the rear. It was a cold room with a lot of stainless steel, and a large table in the middle of the room. Hanging over the table, and shining down on it, were large bright lights. The table was covered with a broad white sheet.
They stood in silence waiting.
Doc Martin, wearing a white coat with a stethoscope sticking out of the pocket, came into the room. And old man with little hair remaining, he’d been doctoring the town’s people for over thirty years. He nodded. “Able.” Then he stepped over to the table, and signaled Able to do the same. Able and the sheriff stepped to the doctor’s side.
“There ain’t much here, Able,” he said and pulled off the sheet. Beneath the sheet was another, and on it were an assortment of bones stained with dirt, and other unrecognizable things.
Able looked at the bones. There were so many, all different sizes and shapes. He shook his head.
The sheriff moved closer to Able. “Don’t expect you to identify the bones, Able. There’s other stuff at this end of the table. Bits of clothing. Jewelry. Take a good look at them.”
Able moved to the end of the table and stared at the things there. Earrings. That’s what they looked like. Little hearts on gold loops. Just like the ones Libby had worn. A bracelet that had corroded beyond recognition, except for the tiny diamond still stuck in one of the pieces. Libby had a bracelet of flat pieces with diamonds in each. It had been Billy Jean’s. Martha gave it to her to remind her of her mother. Scraps of blue jeans. Could have belonged to anyone.
The sheriff’s voice was low, reverent, like in a church. “Do you remember what she had been wearing when she went out with Martha that day she ran away?”
“Tryin to think.” Able brought up the picture in his head of the last time he had seen Libby. Martha and Libby were going shopping. They got in the pick-up truck. There was a scarf she had tied around her waist. Lots of yellows and browns and reds.
“I remember a scarf. Silky thing.”
The sheriff pointed to a dirty piece of cloth. “Like that?”
Though the cloth was stained with mud he could make out the yellows and browns and reds.
“Did Martha buy Libby anything at the store?”
Able shook his head. “Don’t know. They drove over to that big mall just opened. Was eighty-miles or more. Going to spend the day there. Shoppin for clothes for Libby to wear to school. All Martha told me was that they were there doin their shoppin, and she turned around and Libby was gone.” He choked suddenly on the words as he saw Martha crying in agony at the child’s disappearing.
“Take it easy, Able.”
Able shook his head. “It ain’t ever gonna be easy. That woman was near hysterical for weeks on end. She of a sudden would cry out and go out of her mind. Blamin herself for what Libby had become. Screaming that it was her fault Libby was gone. It was bad.”
Able stared at the colored cloth. “Martha bore the shame of how Libby turned out. Everything Libby did tore at Martha’s heart. She prayed like a monk for that girl’s salvation. Don’t think she could have carried another shameful thing from that girl. She said that Libby was the Devil’s child, coming as she did from Billy Jean’s sinful carrying on with that Johnson boy - Billy Jean a mere child herself.”
He carefully picked up the fragment of colored cloth. “Sure looks like the scarf she was wearing.” He pointed to the earrings, and tears filled his eyes. “She had earrings with little hearts on them. And a bracelet with little diamonds that was her mother’s.” The tears turned to sobs. “It’s gotta be her. God.” He put the cloth down, turned away and cried. He cried this time, not for the pain of the past that haunted him, but for the pain of reality, the pain that grabbed at his heart. And it hurt too much.
The sheriff looked at the doctor and nodded.
“Why don’t you go back to my office, Able. I’ll have Beachem drive you home. You can think about a funeral later.”
Able, sobbing like a child, nodded, his back to the two men. He went out the door and closed it behind him.
Doc Martin looked puzzled. “Why didn’t you tell him she was pregnant?”
The sheriff shook his head sadly. “No purpose in it. Only make him hurt more.”
“What about the watch? Why didn’t you let me show it to him?”
“Means nothin now.”
“What do you mean - means nothing? The bones of the child’s left hand still had a firm grip on it. And it looked like it had been torn from whoever was wearing it. The bracelet of the watch was broken. That girl was struggling for her life when she wrenched that watch off the wrist of who I could only assume was her killer.”
“I know all I need to know about the watch. It belonged to Martha, Able’s wife. She had said she lost it when they were out shopping that day. Didn’t know how it could have happened.”
The sheriff turned away. As he walked to the door he spoke over his shoulder. “I’d appreciate it, Doc, if you made no mention of that watch. Won’t solve anything. Only bring up a lot of useless pain.”
The End
A Toast to Dear Old Dad
by Richard F. West
“Glad that’s over,” Karl said. He was a tall solidly built man with a receding hairline that made him look older than forty-five. He came into the room first and sat on one of the two sofas near the fireplace. It was a large room that looked as if it was taken right out of a page from a Gothic mystery novel. Solid period furniture, dark wood, depressing decor filled with antiques, heavy dark drapes, and the large fireplace. There was a fire going that helped warm the three of them. Three men dressed in dark suits and ties. The other two followed Karl’s lead and took seats on the opposite sofa.
“So, Benson,” Karl said. “How do you feel now that this is over?” Benson was a heavy man with solid gray hair and a florid face. “Anxious to get your nose back to the grindstone? Is that what lawyers call it? Or do lawyers get their elbows back to the bar?” Karl grinned.
Benson sat more erect, getting into position to argue a case.
“Problem with the will?” Karl said. He noticed Benson’s posturing.
“No,” Benson said. “The will is solid.”
“Then everything is settled.”
Benson pulled himself further upright. “I think we have to renegotiate my fee.” His voice had a booming quality that worked well in the courtroom, and in intimidating his clients.
Karl laughed loud and hard. “Did you hear that, Jimmy? What did I tell you?” Jimmy grinned and nodded knowingly. Jimmy, seated on the sofa with Benson, was the youngest of the three men. A slight man closing on forty, dark hair developing gray streaks, and blue eyes that were hard and firm.
Benson looked steadily at Karl, waiting to be let in on the joke.
“I’m sorry,” Karl said, still chuckling. “I had told Jimmy that you’d up the ante after the funeral. And, Benson, you came through.” He stifled the growing laugh. “So, how much of a fee were thinking of?”
“Three million.” He said it with dry confidence.
“Three?” Karl said, exaggerating his surprise. “One million wasn’t enough? Are you absolutely sure that three is quite enough? Why not five? Ten?”
“Three is what I feel is fair. It will satisfy my needs.” Benson did not go in for exaggerated emotional performances. He found the most effective way to deal with people was to be steady and calm, and self-assured.
“Well, Jimmy, what do you think?” Karl turned to look at Jimmy. “Do we give this esteemed member of the bar a three million dollar fee to satisfy his needs?”
Jimmy, still grinning, shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? We should all come out of this satisfied.”
“Good, point, my brother.” Karl turned back to Benson. “There you are. We should all be satisfied. You will get your three million.” Then with a hint of sarcasm, “I assume you have something legal for me to sign to that effect?”
Benson reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fold of papers. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He unfolded the papers, reached over, and handed them to Karl. “It is an agreement to engage my services as your attorney for the next ten years for the sum of three million dollars to be paid in advance.”
Karl scanned the document, but didn’t read it. He looked up at Benson. “You realize that the moment Jimmy and I sign this document you are firmly implicated in this with us? You can not hide behind the privileged confidence of an attorney because this shows you were made our attorney after the fact.”
Benson nodded.
“We will be joined at the hip, so to speak.”
“That way,” Benson said, “We will not be able to turn the screws on each other, nor will any of us be able to walk away from this.”
Karl nodded, took out the gold pen he always carried, and signed the bottom of the contract. He stood, reached out, and handed the pen and contract to Jimmy. Jimmy signed the contract beneath Karl’s signature and handed the contract back to Benson. Then Jimmy tossed the pen back to Karl. Benson looked at the signatures with approval and relief. He had expected resistance. Had actually been afraid the situation would turn ugly. But it hadn’t. And now he had enough money to never worry about money again. He separated the copies and handed one copy to Jimmy, then stood and handed the other copy to Karl. Each man folded his copy and put it inside his jacket.
Then Karl smiled. “Benson, now that we have our copies there’s no backing out. You are one of us.”
Benson shrugged lightly. He wanted to jump for joy, but it would not do for his image.
“I think we should seal our agreement with a drink,” Karl said and pressed the button on the table next to the sofa. “I’m smiling, Benson,” Karl said, “because Jimmy and I had discussed just this situation earlier - that you would want more money, and we were willing to offer you five million for you complicity.”
Benson’s disappointment was visible on his face. He had figured ten percent was not too strong a request. They were to inherit $30 million. So, three million seemed reasonable. He could have held out for five. Damn. Then he shrugged and sighed in resignation. He had won what he wanted. So, no great loss. He would live comfortably.
An old thin man, dressed formally in a tuxedo and tails, came into the room. He stood erect, with a face like Ichabod Crane - all knobs and angles, and a bald head except for a fringe of white hair.
Karl looked over to the man. “Hodges, bring us Daddy’s personal bottle.”
Hodges raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Karl cut his objections off with a firm look. “That’s right, his personal bottle of champagne. You know the one I mean. He’s not here anymore to drink it, Hodges. So we shall drink it for him.”
There was a moment where it looked as if Hodges was going to resist. Then the man’s expression became impassive, the face of an invisible servant. “Yes, sir,” he said. He slowly turned and left the room.
Jimmy watched the servant leave the room, “I never liked that sneaky old man.”
“Hodges?” Karl said, and chuckled. “He never liked us either.”
“He and the old man were inseparable.”
Benson nodded, “Something in the will about how your father owed him so much. Doesn’t explain exactly what, though.”
“Forget Hodges,” Karl said to Benson. “He’s harmless. We have more important things to discuss. As our lawyer, the first thing I’d like you to do is get rid of this house, and all the stuff in it. I don’t want to see any of this anymore. I always hated this place. It was my father’s idea to keep it. I think he pictured himself as a tyrannical Victorian.”
“This house has been in your family for over a hundred years,” Benson said, surprised at the request.
“Much too long,” Karl said. “It’s ugly and overpowering. Now that we have our hands on the money, it’s time for Jimmy and I to start a new life. One more exciting than kissing the feet of that old bastard.”
“Yes,” Jimmy said. “I think the Riviera might be a nice place to start.”
Karl grinned at Jimmy, “Don’t blow it all on the women.”
Benson, ignoring the verbal play between the two men, shrugged in compliance, “I’ll get on it.”
“Can’t be too soon for me,” Jimmy said, looking over his shoulder toward the hall and the foot of the stairs that led to the second floor. “Every time I go to those stairs I see his body in a broken heap at the bottom.”
“How poetic, my brother,” Karl said, sarcasm lacing his tone. “A broken heap. Actually, the only thing broken was his neck. The rest of his body was bruised a bit.”
Jimmy looked back at Karl, “Dead is still dead. And that’s what I see - dead. The dead body of an old man.”
“Come on now! Cut the bullshit,” Karl said. “You don’t have a sentimental bone in your body.”
Jimmy shrugged with a boyish grin. “All right, the body of a sleazy old bastard who deserved to be dead.”
Hodges came into the room, bearing a silver tray holding a large bottle of champagne in a green bottle, and three champagne glasses with tall stems. He set the tray on the table between the two sofas. He made to open the bottle, but Karl waved him away.
“It’s okay, Hodges. We’ll take it from here.”
Hodges nodded and left the room.
Karl looked at Benson, “Get rid of him, too.”
“He was well taken care of in the will.”
“Fine,” Karl said with that tone that said he didn’t really care. Then Karl picked up the bottle and turned the label toward him. “This bottle of champagne father had bottled especially for himself. One bottle.” He shrugged when Benson showed surprise. “When you have money, all things are possible. Even the label is a one of a kind. It reads: ‘Baron - he liked to think of himself as a baron - Winston Montgomery Special Harvest. The superb of the superb, a nectar of nature fit to caress only the palate of a dying man. That his last physical experience be ecstasy’.” He chuckled, “Well, Baron old boy, you missed out. And we’re not going to wait that long.” Karl peeled the foil off around the cork.
“I must admit how surprised I am that his death wasn’t questioned,” Benson said.
Jimmy waved away the comment, “The police have enough homicides on their hands to keep them busy. Why should they strain themselves to see murder in something that appeared so natural.” Jimmy undid his tie and opened his collar. “Time to relax.”
Benson did not undo his. He lived and worked everyday in a shirt and tie. He felt perfectly comfortable wearing one.
Karl pulled the cork with a solid pop. “No signs of violence,” Karl shrugged. “Three people, his two sons and his attorney as witnesses to the untimely fall.” He poured the champagne into each of the glasses. “Why would anyone think it was a staged event? His neck was broken, which is how people usually die from a fall downstairs.” Karl signaled to the two men that their glasses were ready. Then he picked up his and leaned back in the sofa.
“I would think there are different ways a neck gets broken,” Benson said, as he leaned forward and picked up one of the glasses of champagne. Jimmy also leaned forward and picked up his glass of champagne.
“I’m sure there are,” Karl said, “if they had been looking for such things.” He shrugged with a smile, “But they didn’t.”
Benson and Jimmy had settled back into the sofa, their glasses held chest high. Jimmy took a quick glanced back at the doorway to be sure they were alone.
“Hodges still bothers me. I think he knows.”
Karl took a deep breath. His brother’s nervousness annoyed him. “Now don’t go getting paranoid, little brother. The man was in the kitchen at the back of the house when we did it. Remember he came running when we called out?”
Jimmy wasn’t convinced. “But he’s always sneaking around. Who knows what he saw and heard?”
“Cool it, kid,” Karl said. There was a finality to his tone that signaled the subject was finished.
Jimmy shrugged in surrender.
Karl raised his glass, “It’s time for the toast. Here’s to the old bastard, may he never rest wherever he is.”
“I don’t want to drink to that,” Benson said. It was clear the toast unsettled him.
“All right,” Karl chuckled. “Here’s to my father’s superb taste in wines.”
“Better,” Benson nodded.
They each took a good swallow of the Baron’s nectar.
“Suicide?” The man was dressed in a gray suit. It was clear from his face that he was a man with a puzzle. A gold badge hung from a flap of leather in his handkerchief pocket. He had smooth, boyish features which didn’t hide the hardness that showed through to the surface.
“I don’t know what else to think,” Hodges said. He was still neatly dressed in tie and tails. “Everyone in the house knew of Mr. Montgomery’s special champagne, sir. He had it bottled specifically for himself.”
“But why?”
“Mr. Montgomery was not afraid of death but he was very afraid of the slow painful dying that precedes it. That champagne was heavily laced with cyanide. He vowed he would take it when he knew that he faced such a dying. He also made me promise to administer that champagne to him should he become unable to do so himself.”
“He must have trusted you make that request.”
Hodges nodded. “I was his friend.”