Blue Ribbon

Before he left for good that morning, Norman made a large pot of soup for the family while they slept. Grannie Sperr's award winning Country Baked Potato Chowder was a crowd pleaser, and he always added it to the dinner menu as comfort food during many bleak winter nights.

He rushed through final preparations. He normally took the local train to work, but today he wanted to meet the 6:10 Express, and he needed time to walk to the station. Usually he drove whenever he went out, but he was sure his wife would need the car today. He arrived with 15 minutes to spare and, despite the cold, sat alone on the bench outside to wait.

Moving to a gated community in a picturesque town a mere 45 minutes from the city was the best decision he made all those early years ago. He read the paper and drank coffee on the train to his job and his six-figured salary; his wife stayed home with the children. They were comfortable and did not worry about the price of anything. House needs a new roof? Done. Car needs work? Write a check.

Investing most of their money with a respected Wall Street guru was the worst decision he made all those years later. He called it financial planning. The legal authorities called it a greedy scam of such magnitude, no one could hope to recuperate losses.

The train's approaching whistle startled him away from his thoughts. He stood and walked to the edge of the platform. The train would not stop, of course, but he did not need that. He inhaled deeply.

“Hey!”

The shout from the stranger made him turn.

“Be careful! What are you doing? This train doesn't stop here, it's express all the way!”

Norman blinked and moved back a few steps. The stranger grabbed his arm and pulled him further away.

“Jeesh, Don't understand you people. You like to stand so close to the end. Could get hurt or worse.”

* * *

“You're home early, hon. Slow day at the office?” Ada said as her husband came in through the back kitchen door.

Norman placed the grocery bag on the table, took out a package, and leaned over to kiss her smile.

“Yep...I figured I could get a head start on crisping the bacon. Forgot to do it before.”

Ada stood and walked over to the pots and pans hanging on the wall next to the stove. “Oh, is it soup night, then?” She handed him the cast iron skillet.

“I thought it was. For you.”

She laughed. “You mean for us, or aren't you having some?”

Norman nodded and turned to the stove. “Who could turn down Grannie's Sperr's chowder on such a night.”

As he crumbled the bacon, he thought about tomorrow.  He hoped he would find another good reason to come home then too.

Offspring

Later, when Harold thought about his reaction when first he learned of his mother's death, he remembered being annoyed by the sounds of the television in the background.

"Doug, turn down that noise!"

His brother looked at him but did not move from the couch.

"Lost the remote. Don't feel like getting up." he said.

Harold sighed. "There's better ways to do things, you know."

It was his Aunt Gigi who called with the news. The last time that Harold and Doug saw her, they were eleven and eight years old, respectively. She sat with them at the train station to wait for the people who would take them away from their mother, and to their new safe life. When two women arrived, both dressed in black and faces arranged in similar business-like expressions, the boys went with them without a fuss. They were obedient children and if their Aunt Gigi told them they had to do something, they did. They trusted her. Their mother, not surprisingly, never argued with her sister over this turn of events. She wanted many things but none included her children.

Over the years, Aunt Gigi kept in touch with them but thought it best not to speak too much about their mother's life. Harold now listened to the details of her death.

"She died in a storm?"

* * * * *

After Doug was asleep for several hours, Harold stood at the doorway of the bedroom and stared at him. The light from the full moon was bright enough to cast softened illumination on Doug's green complexion. It was not unlike his own, Harold thought as he touched his face.

They resembled their mother.

Even though they lived an early life unnourished by an affection that never filled their mother's heart or their souls, he was saddened by her loss. But he vowed he would never tell Doug about the absurdity of her death. A house! A house had fallen on her and killed her.

Then, the locals cheered and danced and sang.

"Ding dong the witch is dead!"

He knew his brother would laugh himself sick at the story, and rightly so. But a dead mother deserved respect, he thought.

Harold left Doug's room and sat by the fire in the study. He allowed himself final thoughts on the matter. They were happy and settled in this place where magic was also known and accepted, though Doug refused to learn how to harness his gift. No matter. As always, Harold would take good care of things.

He stood, ready for bed,  and pointed a finger at the fireplace. Its flames hissed away instantly.

There was nothing wicked about him.

Father

During the years that I lived there, my wife kept every light on in the house at night. I wasn’t happy about the bills, but she’d shake her head and say she needed to keep the shadows erased. What she meant was she wanted to know my every move – for protection, you see.

I loved her very much, once. But I fell crazier in lust with drugs and alcohol, and they became more important to me than anything, even my family. I used an awful lot, you know, and I can’t take that back. It was fun at first. Now, drugs are the only things that keep my darkness away.

We have two children – both of them boys. At the beginning, when they were new and soft and I was clean, I would tell proud tales about them to all my friends. The kids really are chips off the old block, I’d say. Then, later, when I forgot to pick them up from school too many times to count, and when I didn’t pretend to be looking for work no more, their mother asked me to leave. I did. I never contacted her – them – again.

Oh, I knew about their illnesses, their schooling, their sports, their happiness at growing up with a great mom, as well as their questions about having a dad who couldn’t be bothered. I turned to a few friends who kept me up to date. My ex never asked about me, and I guess I’m okay about it since I did throw that life away. You want the cross my heart and hope to … well … the truth? I wouldn’t change a thing. I have everything I want, everything I need. Yeah. I know.

So one cold rainy autumn evening, I’m standing across the street smoking and looking at them through the kitchen window. I catch a glimpse of my oldest boy. He’s carrying dishes to the sink and laughing at something his brother said. Their mother’s dancing around the room while she turns off lights.

It’s time for me to go. I flick the smokes to the curb and its little flame goes out as soon as it hits the oily puddle on the ground. I won’t come back to this corner any more, I decide. As I turn to leave, I’m startled by the sound of the front door opening. I don’t want them to see me so I quickly walk to my car. When I reach for the handle, I can hear the kids saying bye to their mom. She waves and calls out, “Make sure you take care of your brother. Have fun at the game.”

The youngest shouts back. “Mom, come on! Don’t worry. We always do.” He runs ahead to catch up with his brother.

I sit in the car and take one last look through the rearview mirror.

My boys. They are nothing like me.

You know what? That makes me proud.

Take Five

Working on fridayflash story. Yes, yes I am. Trying to find my little notes to help me along. Some blew out the window but didn't lose these.

 

 

 

 

 

Theo

After lying on my bed for ten days waiting for death, I looked around my room and thought—well, maybe it isn’t coming.  Almost a month ago I was here, packing for a move to a new apartment.  The stranger’s voice on the telephone told me three things I’d like to forget: there was an accident, it involved my husband, and he didn’t make it. He was killed instantly by a taxi that swerved to miss a stalled car, and jumped the curb. Witnesses said my husband managed to push a woman out of the way but was crushed against the office building he had just left. When told he was dead, I knew that I was going to die, too, because Theo and I always did everything together. 

That’s why I took to my bed and waited. 

 When I finally appeared in my living room and saw the ashen, stricken pallor of family and friends, I said to them, “I don’t want to live anymore, but it seems that I must.  I don’t want to do this.  I don’t know how to do this.” As the voices assembled there murmured about the extent of their sorrow over Theo’s loss and offered to give me whatever I needed, I stood uncertain about what to do next.  It was then that I saw the boxes.  Ah, right. Moving day. So I walked over to a bookshelf and started packing Theo’s books. This I can do, I thought, just move my hands from shelf to box. This I can do. 

When I first saw Theo those years ago, I was a freshman at an all-girls school in the Finger Lakes region of New York.  He had come to visit his best friend, my professor in World Literature, and was to be a guest lecturer in our seminar. We were so excited that a real writer was coming to talk to us about his books, which invariably centered on protagonists who were imbued with a sensual passion for life and sexual adventure. 

On the day of his talk, not one student was late, even my best friend Cecily had managed to make peace with her alarm and was sitting in her seat with her hair combed and her clothes properly straightened, something we never thought she knew how to do.  At 9:30 sharp, we heard the approaching footsteps and held our breaths and looked at each other with isn’t-this-exciting fervor and then turned to the door. 

First impressions?  Theo was rather short and round.  He had cerulean blue eyes, a beautiful nose and thick dark hair that curled around his head.  From the neck up he looked like Michelangelo’s David. From the neck down he resembled Danny Devito.

* * * * * *

“No, NO, NO! This is awful!” Kat said. “What am I going to do? What am I going to write?” 

 “It’s not that bad,” her friend Alicia said, then immediately ruined the moment by choking back a laugh. 

“Really? You think so?” 

But Alicia could not stop the heaving of her shoulders and just let go, laughing until her tears washed away the sight of a not amused Kat — Alicia has to leave. Now.

A few minutes after Alicia blew her a kiss and closed the door behind her, Kat returned to her story of Theo and his tragic demise. She couldn’t start over, she just couldn’t.  Minutes passed, then hours. She had to have something, for goodness sake, and soon. It’s Friday, after all! Some of the people in her online writing community said they had even written theirs at the beginning of the week. By the way, who are these people? And why wasn’t she one of them?

Kat looked at the computer screen and became hopeful.  It’s not that bad, right? What if Theo had the body of Michelangelo’s David and Danny Devito’s face?

After a moment, she hit the delete button and started over.

A Kick in the A**

When I was a student those eons ago, Sister St. Cornelia would write on the blackboard whatever assignment needed to be completed for the week. Then she had us copy it down in our little notebooks. This would ensure that we students could not claim that we did not know about it, or any other excuse for not doing the work and handing it in on time.

Sick? Send her the assignment with your mother. 

Dead? Leave it to her in your will.

So, today I give a shout-out to that little lesson. 

Sister St. Cornelia is not here but if she were, I would tell her that I don't need her to write any reminders for me on the blackboard.  I can post it on the refrigerator. Also, I can see the others who tweet -- days before the deadline -- that they've finished their assignment. What? Oh, how I hate envy admire them!

So, here I am. Thinking. I am kind of tired, though, and  I need something that will jolt me into action.

 

Oh. OK. That's a good start.

#fridayflash - Press Goodbye

Just the two of us in the elevator. Good, easier to keep my heartbreak private. Piped music wafts from the speakers and fills the silence. I am struck by familiar thoughts of how to make myself feel better. I blame it on the tango.

How appropriate that the ludicrous Musak rendition of Adiós Muchachos fills the cubicle as she and I are falling to the first floor on the express. We are saying the final adios after two years of togetherness. One week ago, while folding the laundry, she confessed that while she “cares for me and always will” things have been changing for too long.

“We argue about nothing important,” she said.

I agreed. We were really good at hitting the wrong buttons, and exhausting our patience. But I want to make this work, I told her. I need time.

Well, the clock is not ticking anymore.

There’s another guy, she said, and asked me to move out. Unfortunately, we share too many friends who arrange too many parties too frequently. What about our poker nights? Our ultimate Frisbee games? The camping? She insisted she had no problem with seeing me at any of these gatherings. We were friends at the beginning, and we can keep up the friendship. Ok? This, however, is not ok nor enough for me. Go back to square one? No. I stopped her hands from picking up another piece of clothing.

“Look at me,” I said. “I can’t live like that. I can’t see you at Jason’s house or Leanne’s apartment or at anybody else’s place and just pretend that it doesn’t affect me. Especially if you bring…him.”

She pulled away and walked to the other end of the room.

“Then, we have to arrange something. Maybe our friends can invite us to different things.” she said.

“You want us to share custody of our friends?”

“If you want to call it that.”

People fight over children, over pets, over property. What would a judge rule in our case? I laughed at the absurdity.

I picked up my keys and walked to the front door. I knew she needed me to tell her something that would settle everything. She waited, probably nervous that I would beg her to stay.

“It’s best that we never see each other again.”

I saw sadness. I saw guilt. But I also saw the quick glint of relief in her eyes.

I turned away, and stepped out into the daylight.

We have spent this week emptying the apartment and moving my stuff to a new place. Many nights I walked from the living room futon to look at the bed we once shared with great excitement. She is never home at night, but I will not sleep in the bedroom by myself.

This last elevator ride is to be my final memory of her. She smiles. I know she is grateful that I have kept it friendly during this week of packing. Well, I have always been known as a good guy, too good, if you ask my male friends. My seemingly civilized acceptance of what I call The Betrayal, and she calls Fate, is what allows her to laugh and finally make small talk with me in unconcerned relaxation as we ride to the end. I hand her my copy of the keys and think about how happy I was when I first used them.

“Do you remember when we would go dancing on Friday nights? And how we always promised ourselves that we would learn how to dance the tango?” I ask while keeping an eye on the descending numbers. I do not have much time.

Her grey eyes look at me, and she nods. I push her dark bangs away from her face and place a kiss on her forehead. I always did this every morning before the elevator reached the lobby floor. She does not flinch this time. That is her goodbye gift to me.

We pass the fifth floor and I give her mine. I wrap my arms around her and hug her tightly. She gasps. She always does this whenever I give her what she calls my Papa Bear hugs. I am not sad, just resigned.

“Goodbye,” I whisper as we reach the ground floor and the elevator stops.

She stares at me with wide eyes. Does she regret her choice? Does she now wish she had not fallen in love with someone else?

No matter. There is no turning back for us.

The doors open and I walk into the empty lobby. I look back at her. She has slid down the wall and sits on the floor of the elevator, eyes still wide. Her white blouse is soaked with the red of the blood that seeps from her back.

I know the knife lodged deep between her shoulder blades has everything to do with that.

I turn away, and step out into the darkness.