What's new

Autumn has finally arrived here, and it is glorious. I love cool, crisp mornings and evenings and sunny warm afternoons. This weather is hard to beat. The leaves have not really started turning here yet, but I have a feeling they'll start showing some color in the next few days. 

This kind of weather makes me want to cook and bake. I made dinner for a dad and two kids who recently lost their wife/mom -- meatloaf, mashed potatoes, California mix veggies, and brownies for dessert. I also took a jug of lemonade and a giant bag of snack bags of chocolate covered pretzels for school lunches. I hope they enjoyed it. I hope it eased their troubles for a moment. I hope it made a difference. I wish I could do so much more. I made two meatloaves and doubled the potatoes and veggies, and an extra pan of brownies - for us - and Steve loved it all. He's a meat-n-potatoes boy, for sure.

Tonight we will enjoy leftovers, so I don't have to make anything. My cooking plans for the next few days include making a pot of beef veggie soup with cornbread, Friday taco night, and maybe a nice roasted chicken for the weekend. I also have had a taste for my mom's no-bake cookies, but I'll wait awhile for those. I try to have extended times between making desserts for us, since we just don't need the sugar.

With my balance issues, I have started using a "rollator" walker in the house. It helps to stabilize me and provides a place to sit if I get weak. Hobbes, of course, has investigated it thoroughly and has decided he likes riding around in it while I push him. Silly boy. 

Audrey is too long to fit on the seat, but I think she wishes she could ride around the house too. 😉

That's pretty much all that's new around here. What's new in your neck of the woods?

An original short story: Home Fires

Tracy sped out from gravel to blacktop, spitting rocks from her back tires. She was going to be late. Again. And Lulu had told her the next time would be the last time. Even though it was a crap job it was still better than nothing. She floored it and the truck jerked in response.

Already, the heat from the sun shimmered on the road ahead of her. It was going to be another scorcher. Tracy hated working the lunch shift at Lulu’s Burgers. It was a manic job – hot as hell, orders being shouted at her from all directions, burgers popping, onion rings sizzling, customers waiting impatiently. She left there every day smelling like grease.

She hazarded a glimpse at herself in the rear view mirror and cringed at what she saw. Twenty eight was way too young to have that kind of dark circle action. She thought of what her Granny used to say about people whose hard living had caught up with them: that they’d been “rode hard and put up wet.” After another late night of drinking, spending the night at Luke’s had seemed like the best decision. I’ve got to get a grip.

Pulling into the parking lot on two wheels, Tracy ran in the back door to find Lulu herself standing there, arms crossed.

“I’m not late. It’s 10:00 right on the dot, so I’m not late.”

Lulu tightened her lips and looked Tracy over from head to toe.

“Girl, the trouble with burning the candle at both ends is sooner or later you’re the one burned. You look like hell.” She shook her head. “All right, get in there and get busy prepping. And keep your mind on the job; I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Tracy did as she was told. One good thing about working at Lulu’s was it didn’t leave room for a lot of rumination. It was mid-afternoon before she had a chance to step out the back door for a break. There was a picnic table under some shade trees, and she gratefully sat. Although hot, the air was moving and she closed her eyes and savored the sensation as the breeze tickled the hairs at the back of her neck.

“Tracy.” She looked up to see Lulu standing there.

“Something wrong?”

“Yes. Hell, yes. Something is wrong, girl. With you.” She sat down at the table with Tracy.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve known you since you were born. Your parents and I go back for years even before that. I know it’s been tough losing them so young, and I—”

“Look, Lulu. I’m fine. I’ve had bit of a rough patch lately, that’s all, but I’m handling things.”

“No, you’re not. Look at you. You’re a mess. Bill and Barbara were so proud of you when you enrolled in culinary school. They used to tell me, ‘That girl of ours is going to really make something of her life. She’s bound for greatness.’ They couldn’t wait to see you as head chef in some swanky restaurant; hell, even owning your own someday.”

“Yeah well, things change sometimes. Life doesn’t always work out like we think it will.”

“Girl, you think you’ve got the market cornered on suffering?” Lulu stood and took a few steps toward the tree, then turned back. “When George died, I wanted to curl up and die right along with him. I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. But you know what? I had two little mouths to feed so I didn’t have a choice. I had to get up, wash my face, go to work.” She blew out a sigh and sat back down.

“I knew I could make damn good burgers and fries, so that’s what I did. I built this business up from the ground, with my own blood and sweat and tears. I know it’s just a burger joint, but it’s my burger joint. It put my two kids through school and got them set up for life.” She leaned forward and locked eyes with Tracy.

“And it provided a place for you when your parents died. Tracy, I know losing them both in that accident shook you to your very core. I was happy to have you come work for me. But, girl…” Lulu’s eyes softened. “Your folks were right. You are meant for something more. You just need to find the courage to take the first step.”

Tracy looked down at her hands. “Lulu, I just don’t know if I have what it takes. Besides, Mom and Dad never said anything like that to me. I always got the impression they wanted me to go to university and be a…I don’t know…a social worker like mom or an accountant like dad.”

“What they wanted was for you to follow your dreams…wherever those dreams take you. They wanted you to be happy and successful living the life you choose.” Lulu stood and headed back inside. “I want you to think long and hard about this, Tracy. The rest of your life just might hinge on what you decide. Now, get out of here for an hour or two. I’ll prep for the supper crowd.”

Tracy headed home in her beat up truck, windows down, humming along to some old-school Iris DeMent, whose plaintive voice always put whatever emotions she was feeling front and center. “…and I brought joy to my mother, and I made my lover smile…” She thought about her mom and dad and what she’d always believed their expectations to be. Her truck changed course almost without her even consciously deciding to, toward to the cemetery where they were buried. She walked up the slight hill where they were buried under a pretty shade tree and she thought again how it wasn’t a bad spot at all to spend eternity.

“Mom, Dad… I know it’s been awhile since I’ve been here. I guess I wanted to be in a better place in my life before I came back.” Her voice thickened and she felt the tears gathering behind her eyes.

“It’s been …. God, it’s been so hard on my own. Growing up I always wished for a sister, but after you guys were gone, so suddenly—” Tracy’s voice broke and she sank to her knees in the soft green grass, silent tears sliding down her face.

“I know I haven’t handled things very well, and I’m sorry. I know you both want me to be strong and successful and happy. And, even though I’m not all of that right now, Lulu helped me see that I can get there. I just have to get off my butt and work for it.” She took a shaky deep breath and smiled through her tears.

“I promise you both, I’m going after that life. I really believe I can get there now.”

Brushing off her jeans, Tracy headed back to the truck. She had plans to make and people to call. But she had one important first call to make.

“Hey Lulu. You were right. About everything. I’ll be in later but I just wanted you to know. I’m going after my dreams.”

An original short story: Dreams of a Better Life

This is a 2500-word story I wrote earlier this year. Trigger warning - violence/rape/language.

Dreams of a Better Life

Mama stood at the stove, her back to me. Her shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. Daddy had hit her pretty hard. I’d wanted to run out of the kitchen from my seat at the table, but she shot me a look and I knew it meant stay put. So I stayed put, moving my fork from the plate to my mouth, even though I couldn’t swallow a bite. I couldn’t do anything except try to make a getaway in my mind. I pictured the meadow behind our house. I was flat out running, not stopping until I reached the tall oak tree with the hollowed out part. I crawl into the opening and feel safe…in my mind. But in my body I was frozen to the seat, afraid to make a wrong move. To breathe. To do anything to set him off again.

I’m Abigail. I’m twelve years old. We live on the edge of Moss Point, Mississippi. It’s not much of a town, more like a wide place in the road. Mama says our nearest neighbor is a half mile down the road. We haven’t lived here very long. We used to live in Jackson, on a street with lots of other houses. But there was always trouble when Daddy was drinking. I think somehow as the liquor pours into him that hate and anger pours into him too. Because when he drinks he always wants to fight, and even though mama and I stay out of his way, he’ll make us come to him.

It usually starts with a question…something like, “Abigail, did you take out the trash like I told you?”

“Yes, Daddy. I put it in the garbage can outside.”

Then he’ll make a big show of finding trash on the floor at his feet, usually a bottle he’s just dropped. He bends down and says, “Well damn, girl, looks like you missed some. Get over here and pick up this trash.”

By this time I’m shaking in my shoes and Mama is telling him to sit down, that she’ll get the trash and throw it out. But it’s no use. You can see the flash in his eyes; he’s wound up tight and, by God, he’s got to teach us a lesson. That’s when the real pain begins. 

When we lived in town and Daddy would get on a tear, the neighbors would call the police on him, That’s when Daddy decided we needed a house with some land. So here we are. No one around here to stick their nose in his business.

Mama does the best she can. She scrubs the house until it’s spotless and her knuckles are red and raw. She cooks all the foods Daddy likes. She talks in a low, calm voice to soothe him. But every day, I see her tense up when we hear his truck coming up the drive. I know, because the same thing happens to me. I hold my breath when he comes in the door, waiting for his first words, because that lets us know how things will go from there.

Sometimes, it’ll be all right. “Hey Sugar, what’s for supper?” She relaxes and smiles and tells him what he wants to hear. And I feel the muscles in my stomach unclench just a little as I put on a smile too.

But then sometimes, like tonight, he comes home loaded for bear. He hit Mama because she was too slow getting his supper on the table. But, even if she’d been faster, he would’ve found another reason to knock her around. Already she’s got the beginnings of a black eye that’ll just get worse as the night goes on. I feel completely helpless. Impotent. I learned that word in school and it’s a good word, a perfect word for me, as I sit here pretending to my supper. Our old dog Lucy is laying under the table and I’m passing bites of food to her, and it looks like I’m eating the food off my plate. So hopefully I’ll be okay there. Of course, there was the time that he knocked me to the floor and kicked me in the stomach because I was being a glutton and a pig. He said he was going to bring a trough into the kitchen and from then on I’d eat from that, like the true piggie I was. So food is a tightrope I try to walk. There are so many tightropes and the truth is, no matter how careful I am, if Daddy means to find fault, he finds fault.

But as bad as it is on me, it’s way worse for Mama. I asked her once why she’d married Daddy. She’d looked at me a long time, then sighed and told me that she was young and didn’t have a good home life. She said Daddy was charming. Charming. He’d made her feel safe, promised to take care of her forever. And for a while, he did what he said. He found a good job and a little house to rent. She said they laughed over her early attempts at cooking but, little by little, she learned how to make the food he loved and keep the house like he wanted. They were happy.

But then, everything seemed to go wrong. Mama got pregnant and, about the same time, Daddy lost his job. They had to move because they got behind on their rent. Mama said they ended up in a boarding house where roughnecks loitered around day and night. Daddy tried to find good work, but couldn’t. Eventually, he took a job as a bouncer at a local bar. He got his drinks for free, which started him down a very bad road. He left Mama alone every night and she was afraid to be in that place by herself. She said she’d cried and begged him to quit the job, to find something else – anything else – where he could stay home nights, but by that time Daddy was already changing. He’d told her she was getting hysterical over nothing, he was keeping the job because it was the only thing putting a roof over their heads, and she should just shut up about it.

And then it happened. One night two men broke into mama’s room and raped her. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she told me that…like her face was suddenly carved out of stone. She said she lost the baby, which turned out to be a boy. Mama said it was like a switch flipped inside Daddy. And even though eventually he found a better job and they were able to move to another house, things were never the same. She said Daddy blamed her for losing his son. He said terrible things to her about the night of the rape and she told me she’d never forget his words, that they hurt as much as the rape did, as much as losing her baby.

Eventually, she got pregnant again, this time with me. She said Daddy was nicer to her during her pregnancy, but when he saw me, disappointment flooded his face. I wasn’t the son he wanted. My earliest memory is of Daddy standing over Mama, yelling right in her face that she couldn’t do anything right, couldn’t give him the son he wanted. That she wasn’t worth a shit.

So that’s our life. As lives go, I think ours is pretty bad. I know I’m supposed to be thankful for my blessings, like a roof over my head and clothes on my back and food to eat. But if I’m being honest, I don’t feel thankful. I feel … cheated. I wish mine and Mama’s lives were different. I wish my family wasn’t painted red with rage and despair. With pain. I wish we could be washed clean and set down in a place with fresh air and room to breathe, to be happy. But it’s just a dream. And dreaming too hard can cause its own pain. Best to not expect anything. Best to just get through the days with my head down.

After supper, I’m allowed to go to my room. I’m really tired, but my stomach is still shaking and it takes me a long time to go to sleep. I can hear raised voices, but nothing else, no furniture breaking or anything hitting the wall. I finally fall asleep. I don’t dream. I wake up around six and hurry to get dressed and go downstairs to help Mama with breakfast. She never asks for help; I just want to be there with her when he comes down.

The morning goes fine. Daddy eats and pronounces breakfast ”good” and we breathe easier. Then he’s off to work and I start upstairs to get my books and jacket to walk to the bus stop. But Mama stops me.

“Abigail, I need your help today.”

“Sure, Mama, let me just—” The look on her face stops me cold in my tracks. “Mama?” She’s looking at me so strangely.

“Abigail, I’ve always been honest with you – maybe too honest – about our life. About Daddy and how he became what he is…how we ended up here.” She paces from one side of the kitchen to the other, then back to face me.

“The fact is, if we don’t do something he’s going to kill me. Lord knows he’s told me that a hundred times…sometimes with his hands around my neck, sometimes with his pistol aimed at my head…but always with a cold dead look in his eyes. He’s telling me the truth, Abigail. One of these days he’ll do it. And where will that leave you?”

I know she’s right. I’d seen him threaten her life more times than I can count, and I’d seen those same dead eyes look at me while he slapped or punched or kicked me. There’s not a doubt in my mind that she is speaking the truth. I take a deep breath.

“What are we going to do?”

Mama looks at me, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I’ve thought this through a million different ways, but 99% of them just don’t work and we end up worse off than we are right now.” She takes a ragged breath before continuing, “The only way is for us to eliminate the source of our problem. I’d do it alone, but I can’t. I need your help”

I feel my eyebrows arch straight up. “Are you – are you saying…?”

“Yes, honey. It’s the only way.”

I look out the window for a minute and try to make my brain process what she’s saying. I try to think about the life I’ve dreamed of – a life without him in it – but I can’t picture it. Instead, my brain feels like a ping pong ball – thoughts bouncing around all over the place. My vision suddenly narrows to twin pinpricks of light and it feels like I’m swimming underwater. What is happening to me?

“Abigail, sit down. You’re white as a ghost. Here, honey. Drink some juice.” Like a robot, I do what I’m told and, little by little, the room comes back into focus and my head clears.

“I’m sorry, Abigail. I expect too much from you. Are you feeling better, honey?”

“I’m fine Mama. I – I’m the one who’s sorry. I don’t know why that happened.”

“It was just too much of a shock to you. I should’ve never even brought it up. ”

“Mama, it’s all right. I’m all right. Please, finish what you were saying.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

We spend the rest of the day going over the plan time and time again, searching for all possible weaknesses and making adjustments. It’s hard, but we know the stakes. To succeed means death. And to fail means death. Now, it’s just a matter of whose.

Daddy comes home in a tolerable mood, which is good. When he asks, I lie and tell him school was fine, we’re studying the Civil War. He talks about how that war pitted brother against brother and what a shame that was, that families could be torn apart. Mama pours him a large whisky and he smiles as he takes the first sip.

She and I keep that glass full as the evening goes on, agreeing with everything Daddy says, even when he starts slurring his words. As Mama helps Daddy upstairs to bed I move the lighted candle to the windowsill. Such a brave little light shining against the big dark night. A little close to those curtains, though. One little flutter and that could be disastrous.

And just like it was meant to be, it happens. The curtain catches, then the books on the shelf next to the window. Then the bookcase itself.

“Mama?”

“I’m here, Abigail. You ready?”

“Almost. Here, Lucy.” The old girl ambles up and I grip her collar. We walk out the front door as the carpet whooshes up in flames. Now the stairs are fully engulfed.

“Is it time?”

“Let’s give it another minute.”

The window at the top of the stairs explodes. “It’s time.”

We start jogging to the nearest neighbor’s house – a half mile away – and when we get there I’m hysterical, beating on the door, tears running down my face. “Please! Call 911! Our house is on fire! My daddy—” I break down, sobbing.

By the time the fire truck arrives, the house is gutted. There’s literally nothing left. Our kind neighbors have loaned us jackets and shoes, since we escaped wearing just our nightclothes. Eventually, a police officer takes us to the little motel in town and gets us a room for the night. She tells us someone from the Red Cross will come by tomorrow to help us figure out what’s next. 

At last, alone in our hotel room, we look at each other. We hug for a really long time. Finally, Mama holds me at arm’s length and says, “Abigail, I love you.” I swallow, hard, and tears fill my eyes.

“Mama, if I live to be a hundred years old I will never doubt that. I know you did this to give me a better life. And I’ve been thinking, I can quit school for a while and try to find a job to help out. We’ll need every penny we can get to make it on our own.” Mama holds her hand up.

“You just hold it right there. You’ll stay in school and you will excel in school.”

“But how will we live?”

“You don’t have to worry about that. There’s insurance on the house and on your Daddy.”

“Insurance?”

“Of course. It’s not a fortune, but we’ll be all right.”

As I hug her again, I find that the dreams for a better life that I couldn’t see before are suddenly getting clearer. But first, I’m going to sleep – really sleep – tonight.

An Original Short Story - Going On

So, I know it's been awhile since I've posted any stories. I suffer from chronic uncertainty and a feeling that my writing is subpar -- which is typical for all writers. But I'm determined to push past that and continue to put myself out there.

In that vein, here's a 750-word story I wrote earlier this year. It's Covid-related, which might be a huge turnoff for you, dear Reader, but it's relevant and timely and I wanted this terrible virus to make it into one of my stories. So here it is.

Going On

“Mrs. Jacobs, your blood work looks great. You have the antibodies to fight Covid-19. Of course, masks are still a good idea, particularly if you’re in an enclosed area around other people. But you’ve done your part to be protected.”

Inside my car I remove my mask and apply hand sanitizer liberally. It still feels wrong to be out, but I sit for a moment and breathe. It’s fine. I’m fine.

My phone rings and, as always, I let it go to voicemail. “Hey Valerie, it’s Sue. I was wondering if you’d like to meet for lunch tomorrow, at the new farm-to-table place with the patio seating. It’s been so long and I sure would love to see you.” A long pause.

“Val…I really miss you. Please call me.”

I delete the voicemail and let my thoughts drift. Losing Matt last year had been the worst thing I’d ever faced. Not having a funeral because of Covid concerns had seemed unthinkable, but truthfully, it had been a relief to grieve in private. I existed on auto-pilot, answering the door only for deliveries, mindlessly binge-watching Netflix, returning phone calls with texts. Over time, the texts became fewer. I built my cocoon and built it well.

I may have never left that cocoon but for my sister Lara. Even though we lived 3,000 miles apart, we were always close. A warrior, Lara battled breast cancer twice. But the second time, cancer won. She died a couple months ago. Again, there was no funeral. I didn’t get to give her one last hug, to tell her goodbye, to let her know how very much I loved her. Damn Cancer. And Damn Covid.

Then, last month, out of the clear blue, I got a letter from Lara. Turns out she’d left it in a file of instructions upon her death.

Dear Val,

Fingers crossed this letter never finds its way to you, because I hope – and PLAN – to tear this letter up and tell you this in person. Someday. When the world tilts upright on its axis again and regains its sanity.

I am so sorry I wasn’t there to help you after Matt’s death. I can’t imagine the pain you’ve gone through…and knowing you’ve been all alone breaks my heart. I hope by the time I’m finished with this course of treatment that things will be opening up and getting back to normal. If everyone does their part with getting vaccinated, surely it won’t be much longer. Then I’ll come for a long visit. We’ll make popcorn and drink hot cocoa and watch old Gilmore Girls episodes. We’ll look through old pictures and I’ll make fun of your hair and you’ll make fun of my glasses. We’ll talk until dawn and sleep until afternoon (no Mom to yell at us that we’re sleeping our life away, lol). Being together will heal us. You of your grief and me of my ductal carcinoma. I can’t wait.

But…if you’re reading this, that means we didn’t get to be together…didn’t get to do all the things. Instead, it means that I get to ask you One Big Thing. My final request, if you will. And you are obliged to do it, Big Sis (I know…you hate it when I call you that). So here goes.

Valerie, you have to promise me that you’ll GO ON. That you’ll get the vaccines and get back out in the world. That you’ll open yourself up to friendship, to life, to love. I know you too well, and while you can survive in a vacuum, you’ll never thrive. And you, my dear sister, were meant to thrive.

So promise me now, Val, right this very minute. Because if you don’t I swear to God I’ll come back and haunt you. I’m not even kidding.

I’ll love you forever.

Lara

When I first read that letter, I fell to my knees and wept, for all the times that had been and for all the times that would never be. And, just as she’d known I would, I promised my little sister I would do it. For her, I would go on.

That was the day I made the appointment for my first vaccine. And called my old friend Sue, apologizing for being distant for so long and telling her that once we were both fully vaccinated, we’d get together for sure.

So now, I press a button on up my phone. “Hey friend, it’s me. Yep. So, what time is lunch tomorrow?”