From that great treasure trove of the former Web site called “Stone Gulch Literary Arts,” the feature offered here is a one act play.
Fiction Alert! Belmonte Segwic, aka Graveyard Whistler, is a fictional character, created to explore the world of literary studies. Thus Graveyard Whistler is free to invent characters, events, and places—all fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or deceased, to actual events, or to real geographic locations is unintentional.
Introductory Word from Graveyard Whistler
The late owner, Stoney, of the literary site was quite a prolific writer in many different genres. He has a grand total of ten one act plays. I don’t know if I’ll feature all of them here, but I just might.
Just to refresh memories: “Stoney,”—my nickname for him because he requested anonymity—the owner of the Stone Gulch lit site, gave me permission to use any of his essays and original fiction and poetry anyway I choose.
So as I base the pieces on the selections I make, I tinker a bit with them, for example, I always change names. I have no idea if Stoney used names of real people or not, but for my purposes, I intend to keep these entries pure fiction, so my tinkering is geared to mask as much as possible any telling details that someone who knew Stoney might recognize.
The last thing I need is someone from Stoney’s circle of folks to suspect he sees himself and feel he’s being targeted.
The following play features two characters who are engaging in a conversation through letters. It is sparse, but it tells a story about two very different characters revealing their various qualities, strengths, and weakness. It’s funny in some ways but mostly pathetic as it pulls the veil off of a decaying, dying, and possibly dead relationship between the two characters involved.
Its original title was “Two Pathetic Women.” I changed it, alluding to Bob Dylan’s song, “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” because I felt that allusion summed up the tenor of the letters the two women have offered.
Enjoy!
I’ll Just Say, “Fare Thee Well”
A one act play by Stoney
The stage setting features two writing desks, a woman at each with pen and paper. The curtain opens as one is writing, speaking as she writes. The curtain closes then opens as the other woman, writes speaking as she writes. This toggling continues until the final curtain closes.
Two pathetic women are exchanging correspondences.
Pathetic Woman 1: It occurred to me that we could easily lose each other. And if that is what you want, I am willing to accept it and respect it and will not bother you again. But I suspect that deep down you do not want that and deep down I do not want that either. We have a lovely and deeply inspirational childhood that we shared, and that we both cherish. I know that it has seemed to me that when we reminisce about our common past we are most in sync. If any of this rings true with you, please let me know because I have an idea that may keep us in a relationship that we can both accept. If not, just ignore and continue on, I won’t bother you again, and blessings to you.
Pathetic Woman 2: You think you are such a smartass intellectual with you fancy-ass ways of trying to look down on me. I get it. This just another way of saying I am at fault for our lousy relationship. You are the one who left home and left me to take care of our family while they got old and died off. Where were you when meemaw was dying, when peepaw was dying, and all the others I had take care of all by my lonesume. You are a selfish fuckhead. You never come to visit even when you are in town. You never call me. Most people who love each at least stay in touch. As far as I am concerned you can take a flying leap and kiss my ass.
Pathetic Woman 1: I think I understand. As I said, I won’t bother you again. And blessings to you.
Pathetic Woman 2: You think your such a fucking saint with all your “blessing this” and “blessing that.” Your just a hypocrit and fraude and you think of no one but your own godam self. You always try to make me look like I’m wrong when you know down deep I the one who has the common sense—peepaw even said that. He said you had the book learning but I had the real smarts. That what alway pisses you off. You know I right about politiks and shit like that. But just because you have choosen the wrong side you think you can bully me and make me think you are the smart and right one. You don’t know shit. As far as I’m concerned to can rot in hell with all the other crapheads.
Pathetic Woman 1: OK. You’ve convinced me. I’m not worth having relationship with. I annoy you, and I promise from now on I will simply leave you alone. At the risk of flaunting sainthood, I’ll again wish you many blessings and a joyous life. But before I go, one last thing: because you did not yet ask about the idea I had for keeping in touch, I’ll just mention it now. Every week or so we could offer a “blast from the past.” Here is my first one: I was playing my guitar this morning and realized that I have this particular brand of guitar because of Uncle Jedediah.
I asked him on one occasion what the best brand of guitar was, and he said, “Martin.” So that’s the brand of guitar I have.” I thought it would be interesting and helpful for us if we could share such info from time to time, since we both think lovingly upon our past and our family.
However, I can see now that that thought was silly. You would be much better off not keeping up a relationship with someone who is so repugnant to you. So, as Bob Dylan once quipped, “I’ll just say fare thee well.”
Pathetic Woman 2: You know I love you more than anything, but I just wish you were different. I wish you understood how unsafe and stupid I feel every time I have to read what you write. I used to like to read you stories and shit, but now all I see is stupid shit that makes me feel like a looser. I AM NOT A LOOSER – NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU TRY TO MAKE ME OUT ONE.
Pathetic Woman 1: All right then. I think I’ve got your answer. Won’t bother you again: “I’ll just say fare thee well.”
Pathetic Woman 2: No response.
The curtain closes. One woman lets out a blood curdling scream: the audience is left to wonder who screamed.
Finis
Afterword from Graveyard Whistler
Just a quick note to thank my readers, especially those who offer useful suggestions. I could do without the insults, smears, and ghastly stupidity that gets slung my way, but what the hey!, that’s to be expected by anyone who goes public in anyway. And I do treasure the kind words and helpful comments. Keep them coming, please!
Back to the drawing board, as the old saw goes . . .
The Graveyard Whistler has found a new story with a complex of irony. He is rethinking his profession as literary sleuth. Captivated by the stories he finds, he remains conflicted about continuing with literature. Maybe he will give up and become a lawyer.
Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real person or actual event.
Graveyard Whistler Offers Some Explanatory Remarks
Hey, hey! It’s been a while since I’ve posted.
The one titled “Literary History and the Art of Irony” brought me a ton of complaints from all the brothers and sisters who enjoy a beautiful, harmonious relationship and deeply resent that I would reveal a set of siblings who scratched at each other like cats in a clothes dryer.
My response was to delete that post, even though the subject was irony, the sibs just provided the example. But hey, I’m not in the business of alienating readers, so I just let it go. The experience did give me some food for thought.
So as I rethink my journey into the literary life, I am finding it discouraging that so many people can’t tell the difference between biography and fiction. What I mean is, a writer creating fiction does not always reveal only what is in his heart and mind: that’s why it’s called “fiction.”
The writer of fiction makes up stuff. If a writer were limited to writing only what he felt and thought, there would be no murder mysteries because only murderers have the knowledge of what it feels like to kill and what thoughts are engendered by that deplorable act.
So as I think though my dilemma, I take comfort in knowing that I will probably never become a creative writer: I write no poetry, no short stories, no plays, no novels. I just write about what poets, fiction writers, playwrights, and novelist have already written.
As I have said, I am especially interested in irony as a literary form and that’s why I wrote about the dysfunctional sibling relationship because the piece I had found had dealt with irony.
The following piece that I found, not on the Internet, but in an ancient, dusty tome at the New Chesterfield Library in Cabot Cove, Maine, features a wacky sea captain and her crew of the Blarney Barnacle, a strange seafaring vessel that ranged up and down the East coast from Maine to Georgia, sometime after the Civil War in the 1870s.
It’s a long and complicated tale but I have excerpted a spot that I found particularly interesting. It was quite a hassle having to type out text, made me very appreciative of the “cut and paste” function on modern word processors.
Without further ado, I present the story to you warts and all—meaning I have not corrected spelling or grammar errors unless they interfered too much with meaning.
The Irony of the Bones
The seas was strictly calm the night that Elizabeth Wayneright ran off from her blackhearted husband.
She hid under the technical tarp on the starboard side and was not detected until we’s way down the coast nearing on Massachusetts.
Cap’n Jane Pickwick, who as you now know, ran a tight ship-shape shippe—actually we wasn’t a shippe, we more a oversize tub but big enough to hold a crew of 9 and sometimes we’d take on passengers who need to travel down the coast.
We started out as usual, Capt. Janey, as we with affection called her, making her rounds, and her first mate, Lt. Maxine Stauttlemeyer, was checking out supplies then ran around the tub, as we with affection called our shippe. Everything in order we start her moving on down the coast.
We’s almost to Massachusetts Bay when a storm busted through, starting to bluster us about something awful. It wasn’t near so bad as it sounded, we’s all used to it and knew we’d be through it in an hour. But the stowaway, Elizabeth Wayneright musta thought we’s headed to perdition.
She came busting out flailing her arms around screaming and yelling, “Oh, God! Oh, God! We’re going to die! We’re going to die! What have I done? What have I done?”
First mate Maxy, as we with affection called her, arrived on the scene, grabbed Lizzy, as we later came to call her with affection, and got her settled own.
She brought Lizzy to Capt. Janey who asked Lizzy all manner of interrogatories, maybe taking hours on into the night.
Capt. put Lizzy in a cabin that had a cot, gave her some tea, and told her that breakfast was at 600 hours. We can only guess if Lizzy slept but next morning as we’s sailing the tub around Mass Bay, we stopped, spread out breakfast and then Lizzy told us her story.
Elizabeth Wayneright was a wife and mother, citizen from a little fishing village about a mile north of Cabot Cove, Maine. She wrote stories for newspapers and magazines. She wrote stuff she just made up, not news reports or journalist-like stuff.
She said she was doing pretty good, making a few extra bucks to help out the family. She had a husband who worked as a lumberjack and blacksmith, depending on what was busy at any given time.
They had one son, who was now grown, married, and living in Augusta, where he did some copyediting work for the state.
She said she worked as a waitress in the local pub while her son was growing up, and that’s how she got the idea to write made-up stories, listening to and talking to all the different types of folk who’d blow into town.
She said she’d been writing her stories for about ten years, sending them off to as far away as California. Said her stories had been published in the same magazine that published biggies like Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain.
We’s all really impressed, we hadn’t heard of her, but we did know the man Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain.
Going on with her story, she said everything was fine, her money helped so that when her husband couldn’t get enough work, they didn’t ever have to fall into debt or go begging on the streets. Then during a long stretch of workless days, her husband started rifling through the stories she had written.
At first, she was glad to see that he was taking an interest, something he had never done before. She felt a little concerned however because he’d read and then the rest of day not say anything. Then he’d read some more and seemed to get kind of mean toward her.
This went on for a week or so, and then he came busting into their bedroom where she sat writing, and he was shaking a magazine at her, and began to call her all sort of bad woman names, like bitch, whore, trollop.
She asked him what he’s taking about and he said it was all there in black and white. She hated him, she had bedded every stranger who came into town, and now she was planning to kill him. It was all there in black and white, he kept saying.
She tried to explain to him that those were stories she made up, she said she got ideas for those stories from listening to folks who frequented the pub where she used to waitress.
She told him she never wrote any stories about him, herself or anyone else she knew. They were all just fiction, stories she had made up.
He was having none of it. He stated ripping the pages out of the magazine, and throwing them at her. She tried again to reason with him, but again he had the goods on her it was all there in black and white.
He kept this rant up for several days, and then one night as Lizzy was cooking supper, he blasted though the door into the kitchen brandishing a knife. Whore! Trollop! What you think of this. I’ll teach you to make a fool out of Roger Blassing Wayneright.
He struck at her, leaving deep wound in her left arm. Lizzy held up her arm and sure enough a deep wound she said she wrapped up and then packed a little bag, and while Roger was sacked out after supper, she ran from their home and here she was.
We all sat, amazed, by this tale this poor woman was telling. We all said we’d think of how we could help her. She said she knew this tub went down the coast but didn’t know how far.
We told her it goes down to Savannah, Georgia. She asked if she could stay with us until then. We said we’s glad to help anyway we could.
After pulling the tub into Savannah, Lizzy clutching her little bag left the shippe, and we never heard from her again. We kept on sailing the Blarney Barnacle up and down the coast.
Then about thirty years after we’d encountered Lizzy, we all stepped out of our tub near Cabot Cove and went into the little diner where we planned to get a much needed, nearly home-cooked meal.
The place was buzzing with a strange report that was spreading through the little village. Near the old Wayneright place, some pigs has had been plugging into the dirt and unearthed a bunch of bones.
The local sheriff had sent the bones off to the capital for testing. But what grabbed us was the rumors that was buzzing about.
Some people was saying those bones was Roger Blassing Wayneright and that Elizabeth Wayneright had murdered her husband about three decade ago. They was sure it was her that done the nasty deed because one night she went missing and soon after it was discovered that Roger was also missing.
But then other folks saw it different, they said it was Elizabeth’s bones and that Roger had done his wife in. Both stories were floating around and we couldn’t tell which side was right, except for the fact that we’d carried Elizabeth Wayneright down to Savannah. We heard her story, but maybe she left out somethin’?
We had a meetin’ on the tub and tossed around the notion of telling the local authorities about seeing Elizabeth all those years ago. We voted that we should tell and so next day, we fetched ourselves to the sheriff’s office and laid out our tale.
He shocked us though and said that Elizabeth Wayneright had come back to Cabot Cove and she and Roger had patched things up and had been living pretty much a quiet life for at least the past twenty years or so.
So we asked him why the two sides of a story about those bones: some thinking Lizzy killed Roger, and some thinking Roger killed Lizzy. He said, that’s just what people in that town do. There was a third group of folks who knew that both Waynerights had moved to Augusta to be near their grandchildren.
A friend of Elizabeth, fellow writer lady of Cabot Cove who wrote under the name of Janice Baines Longstreet had kept that third group in the know about Elizabeth. So the sheriff could say for sure that those bones belonged to neither Wayneright. And to cap it off, he had funeral notices for both Roger and Elizabeth from when they lived and then died in Augusta.
We asked him why there could be three different version of the Wayneright story floating around this little village when at least two upstanding citizens knew the real skinny.
He just said, people gonna believe what they wanna believe. Don’t matter who says what. Once they choose up a side they just won’t see the other side, no matter the evidence.
Capt. Janey then put out the question we’s all wondering about. How did Elizabeth ever convince her husband that her stories were just stuff she made u? He cut her arm thinking she was going to kill him because of her stories.
The sheriff said that writer lady had a book that tried to answer that question. But he said he thought because it was a novel, it might have fudged the details a bit.
What he knew was that Elizabeth came back because she wanted to keep writing her stories and making money.
Roger had been down on his luck for quite a while, and had to depend on their son to even keep their home, and so when Elizabeth showed up, he knew he’d either have to accept her and her money or eventually sink to the poor house.
He knew their son who had a growing family couldn’t continue to support him. The sheriff said, it’s simple, money talks, and Roger finally accepted the fact that if stories about adultery and murder could make money that was better then no money.
We left again down the coast before the report about the bones came back, but we knew that once it did, no matter what the report said, those two sides would continue their rumors, and the third side, the one that knew the truth would just be so much whistling in the wind.
Graveyard Whistler’s Final Remark on Dramatic/Situational Irony
I asked a friend of mine to proofread this piece and he asked me what is ironic about the bones. Well, at first the reader thinks they must be Roger’s because they know Elizabeth had traveled with the Barnacle crew after running away from him.
Then it shifts to the possibility it could be Elizabeth’s because they learn that she went back to Roger.
But then they finally know that the bones are not Roger or Elizabeth, and they never find whose they are.
It’s a complex of dramatic and situational irony instead of simple verbal irony because the irony is based on situation not just words and the audience does become aware of information that the people in the story will never know.
Graveyard Whistler discovers a treasure trove of literary gems in a website titled “Stone Gulch Literary Forum,” including a piece displaying the literary device “irony,” and he then runs with it.
Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real person or actual event.
Graveyard Whistler’s Introduction
Hello, to recap a bit—my name is Belmonte Segwic, (aka “Graveyard Whistler,” a handle I used in grad school), and I just recently earned my master of arts in creative writing from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa.
After achieving that momentous event, I decided I would go for a PhD in the history of letters. Thus, I had to go searching for a topic about which to attach my literarily waning interest. With a ton of doubt on my mind, I started rummaging the Internet searching for my focus of interest.
Unfortunately, I am still searching for that focus, but I am happy to report that I found an interesting piece that caught my eye because its title contains the term “irony,” and irony is my very, extremely very, favorite literary device.
I happened upon a literary website called “Stone Gulch Literary Forum.” The website owner explained that he was terminally ill and was therefore terminating his site. He thanked all of his readers and wished them well. So I contacted that website owner and discovered some fascinating facts about him.
He was actually the writer and creator of all the pieces offered on the site. I asked him if I could use his pieces in my research, and he gave me complete ownership of all of his works on the site. I have a legal contract and all that!
He asked only that I not divulge his name and that I change any names in the pieces that I reproduced. I gladly agreed and now I am in possession of a treasure trove of short stories, songs, poems, philosophical and political essays, even some drawings and sketches.
A few months after I acquired the Stone Gulch literature, the owner did succumb to his illness, and now when I feel it necessary to refer to this excellent writer, I refer to him only as “Stoney.”
The following short story “Chester Shows Them” is the first offering from Stoney’s treasure trove. It gave me a chill or two! Maybe it will do the same for you.
Chester Shows Them
Chester is sitting near the river, intending to slash his wrists so he would be found in a pool of blood. “That will show them,” he thinks. He sits for a long time brandishing a sharp stick, slashing through the muddy bank leaving long trails of troughs.
He continues to wait, he knows not what for, perhaps the courage to take out his knife and finish the job.
Suddenly, Chester bolts upright, after having dozed off for how long he could not tell. He throws down the sharp stick and starts walking up the riverbank, thinking a new location might inspire him.
A tree root reaches out and wraps itself around his ankle. He cannot move. Then a tree branch grabs him around the neck, squeezing tighter and tighter.
He thinks he may pass out, so he takes out his knife, cuts the tree branch from his neck and then cuts the root from his ankle, and walks on up the riverbank, cursing “Goddam tree!”
Suddenly, the bank is covered in weeds and grass so thick he can hardly walk through them. The grass is slick, and he nearly falls as he continues on, again cursing, “Goddam weeds!” Finally, he sees a place to sit near a large rock.
He feels that the rock may give him courage, and he can take out his knife slash both wrists with deep wide slashes so the blood will gush out, and he will be found in the pool of blood that he continues to envision.
Yes, they will find me in a pool of blood, and they will be sorry for wrecking my life, leaving me helpless, leaving me without any hope, leaving me without any dignity with which I could conduct my life.
They will find me, and they will see what they have done.
While Chester is playing out his drama down by the river, Flora is taking out the last of her money from the checking account she and Chester had shared.
Flora is on her way to a new life without Chester’s constant whining and accusations and sudden temper tantrums that always end with beatings and promises of death and utter destruction for Flora and her parents.
Chester’s brother is helping their parents clean up the mess Chester had left after breaking into their home, stealing money from their wall safe, breaking every mirror in the house, and emptying the food from the refrigerator onto the kitchen floor, where he had apparently stomped the lettuce, yogurt cartons, cheese, and other items until they were flattened, disgusting globs.
Chester’s friend Arthur is listening to his voicemail from Chester, who is ranting uncontrollably about all the times Arthur had tried to pull something over on him. Chester keeps repeating, “you’re going to pay, Artie.”
Chester continues: “You and everyone else is going to be sorry for all the shit you have slung at me over the years. Just wait and see. Kiss my ass, you motherfucker. Kiss my goddam ass. Piss off, fake friend. Friend! Ha! Go to hell!”
Arthur is stunned by this rant. He had seen Chester suffer from dark moods but had never heard Chester talk like that. He runs to his car and speeds over to Chester’s apartment but finds no Chester.
Sitting by the big rock, Chester again takes up a sharp stick and begins craving long trough-like trails through the moist riverbank soil. He carves and carves until he falls asleep.
As Chester sleeps, it begins to rain. It rains the rest of the day into the night as Chester continues to sleep. The river overflows its banks.
By the evening of the next day, the flood waters begin to recede. By this time Chester’s family and Arthur have alerted the police that Chester is missing. A search is put in place, but no one had any idea where Chester might have gone.
After four weeks, the captain of a riverboat sees something bobbing in the water. The riverboat crew haul in the object and realize it is a human body, badly decomposed and unrecognizable.
Chester’s family hears on the news about the riverboat crew finding a body, and they haul themselves down the police headquarters to check on their missing loved one.
Yes, the authorities are aware of the body, and the lab had started DNA tests but with nothing to which they can compare it, they had put the testing on hold. Chester’s brother gives a sample of his DNA for comparison to the corpse.
And his mother turns over a hair brush with Chester’s hair. The test comes back positively identifying the corpse as Chester.
Three days later, the forensic examiners offer their completed report. The victim had died by drowning. It appeared that the victim had fallen asleep sitting quietly by the riverbank. So simple!
So different from the drama that Chester had hoped to leave. No pool of blood! No remorseful gnashing of teeth by the family and friends who feel no compunction about taking any blame for Chester’s accidental drowning.
Graveyard Whistler’s Final Comment
I am kicking around the notion of focusing my dissertation on letters of famous literary figures who have confused their audiences with “irony.” I think that might work. I’ll keep you posted as I continue to research this issue.
Belmonte Segwic, aka Graveyard Whistler, is a persona that I created to tell a story about a unique individual’s interaction with the study of the literary arts.
Fiction Alert!
Belmonte Segwic, aka Graveyard Whistler, is a fictional character, created to explore the world of literary studies. Thus Graveyard Whistler is free to invent characters, events, and places—all fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or deceased, to actual events or to real geographic locations is unintentional.
Introduction by Graveyard Whistler
“We cannot choose what we are free to love.” —W. H. Auden, “Canzone”
Greetings! My name is Belmonte Segwic, aka “Graveyard Whistler,” a handle I used in my many Internet writings and communications in grad school. I fairly recently completed a master of arts degree in creative writing at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa.
After achieving that step in my education, I have been batting around the idea of pursuing a PhD in the history of letters.
Thus, I have transferred to a large university in the eastern United States that will remain nameless. My advisor advised me to keep it nameless because of my intentions to engage heavily on the Internet.
I guess she felt that my style might cramp that of this “prestigious” institution of higher learning.
Being the opinionated fool that I am, I would love nothing better than to engage in poking holes in the inflated balloon of reputation that these Ivy League monstrosities like to float over the heads of their inferiors.
But I will have to save that for another day because now I intend to seek, read, and research, looking backward into the history of literature.
I am particularly drawn to irony as a literary device, and likely I will offer lots of stuff pertaining to that device.
But I’m also easily swayed by intriguing narratives of all sorts, from flash fiction to gigantic tomes that seem never ending.
For my writing purposes though, I will likely stick to mid-sized works that can be handled in 1000 to 4000 words for the Internet, where attention spans diminish daily.
So those honorable mentions represent a brief overview of my literary intentions at the present time, and of course, I reserve the right change directions as speedily as I can close one text and open another.
My apparent lack of direction is somewhat upsetting to my advisor, but I have assured her that I will have a dandy dissertation all tied up in bows by end of the three-year limitation that has been imposed upon me.
A Little Bit about My Background
I was born on an undisclosed day in an undisclosed small hamlet in eastern Kentucky. I’d like nothing more than to disclose those bits of bio, but my parents are important people in Kentucky politics.
And I refuse commit any act that would limit where I will go in my Internet scribblings, which I would most definitely be called upon to do if it got out who my important parents are. No! Forget about it! It ain’t Mitch McConnell or the Pauls.)
Just let me say that they are decent, hard-working folks, highly educated, and even to my own politics-blighted view, important to the societal, cultural, as well as political fabric of Kentucky and the mid-South in general.
I am an only child and feel that I have not missed out on anything important by not having siblings. I did grow up with about a dozen cousins who seemed like siblings, some staying with us for extended visits.
It seems that there were always a cousin or two filling up our extra bedrooms, keeping our refrigerator perpetually empty but offering the best company a young tyke could ask for.
I always enjoyed having those cousins visit, learned a great deal from the older ones and was constantly entertained by the younger ones.
What I remember most is writing and putting on plays. All of cousins loved movies, theater, and books about imaginary characters.
From my age of six to seventeen we must have written and performed a couple hundred plays, all influenced by something some cousin had read and loved.
I hated acting but was always recruited to be one of the main characters. I loved doing the art for the backgrounds and working props like swords, capes, pistols, wands, fairy dust, make-up and other costumes—whatever we needed to make the play more colorful and life-like.
My Favorite Play
The summer after high school graduation when I seventeen, four of my cousins (all of us getting ready for college in the fall) came to stay for the entire summer.
The first few days we just goofed off—swimming, throwing baseballs around, riding bikes, watching TV, and cooking large meals every night.
Then about two weeks into the visit, the oldest cousin blurted out while we were sitting around trying to decide what to do that day, “Let’s do a play!” Everyone shouted in unison, “Of course, a play!”
The next question was—what will it be about? And after batting around ideas for about an hour, we decided it would be a play based on a Shakespeare play.
One girl-cousin then insisted it be based on The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, but then the other girl-cousin objected saying that one always made her “cryyy.”
But then a boy-cousin piped up, saying, no, let’s make it a comedy. It doesn’t have to be exactly like the Shakespeare, let’s turn it into a comedy. That will be a barrel of fun to turn a tragedy into a comedy.
To make a really, really long story much shorter than the original, we began right away to write our version of the Shakespeare tragedy into a comedy. We titled it “Raymond and Julie: A Funny Tale with a Happy Ending.”
We worked and worked. I painted sets, helped make costumes, and we then asked the principal of our high school to let us use the auditorium to put on the play. Then we got the brilliant idea of selling tickets.
I typed up a ticket, took it to Kinko’s and ran off a thousand copies. And we sold every one of them!
The auditorium only held 850 people. So on performance night, roughly 200 people had to stand around to watch this amateur group of ragamuffins scuffling across a stage performing their original version of one the great bard’s masterpieces.
Luckily, the play went off without a hitch, the audience loved it, some even asked if we would do it again!
Then all hell broke loose! The county clerk’s office contacted the principal of the high school and asked if a certain unapproved event had taken place at the high school.
The clerk asked for details such as tickets sold, capacity of the room, and what permits the administrators of the event had applied for and obtained.
Well, we had not applied for and obtained any permits, and when the clerk had gathered all that information, he sent the sheriff to our house for a little sit-down with our parents.
The sheriff found that we were in violation of a number of county and city ordinances, and the fines for those violations amounted to $15,000!
We had sold tickets for 50 cents each. We sold a 1000, so that means we took in $500 for the sale of the tickets. My parents were stupefied about all those ordinances and that’s how they got into politics.
They first ran for council positions to try to eliminate the coercive nature of government into the lives of young people who were actually doing good creative work.
But for the time being, before they could actually do anything politically, my parents owed $15,000 in fines for allowing us to perform a play for the community.
Luckily, they were friends with a neighbor who was a tax attorney. He also knew quite a lot about the ordinances that we had violated. He came over to our house one evening to explain what he had found out about satisfying that ridiculous fine.
He told us that we could retro-actively apply for a permit for the play, but that we would have to perform the play again after we received it—that is—if we received it.
He then said that if we apply and receive the permit and re-perform the play, we must turn over the proceeds to a county or city charity. We didn’t have to sell tickets again, we could just turn over the money we had collected from the first performance.
So here is how it went down: we had paid $50 to get the tickets copied. We took in $500 for the first performance of the play, which had left us with $450.
After the lawyer-friend told us about getting the permit, we shelled out $100 for the permit.
It didn’t cost us anything to re-perform the play, and actually we loved getting to do it again, and our audience loved it so much that they donated money because we had not charged them for the second performance.
And they donated big time: the 1000 people who attended, donated roughly $60 each.
That meant after we gave the original $500 to the charity (our three sets of parents made up the $150 missing from the original intake of $500 that paid for the tickets and application for the permit)—we chose to give to the “Little Brothers and Sisters of Saint Francis”—we ended up with roughly $55,000!
We did not have to pay the fines because we donated our $500 to the “Saint Francis” charity, so all that money was ours. So we gave $5000 more to “Saint Francis” and split up the rest of it among ourselves.
We each got $10,000, and we all were entering college in the fall.
When we get together now, we all wonder how we would have managed to enter college that fall without that windfall.
Sometimes we get silly and say things like, we should do that again, I got car payments that could use it, or who knew we could sell our skills so cheap and then reap a big payout like that?
It all seems surreal now, but the play, “Raymond and Julie: A Funny Tale with a Happy Ending,” will always be my favorite. I have a worn-out copy that I take out from time to time when I need a smile or two.
I thus have no doubt about what sealed my interest in the literary arts. Our play had included rich dialog, poems, songs, jokes, biography, and even a play within a play.
Thank you to those who have stayed with me to this point. I will now go off to play in the world of literary arts, and wherever you go off to, I wish you as much fun as I will have in mine.
Given the choice of continuing to suffer beatings from a brutal husband and being held safely behind some unemotional bars, which would you choose?
Man at the best a creature frail and vain, In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak; Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain. Each storm his state, his mind, his body break; From some of these he never finds cessation, But day or night, within, without, vexation, Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near’st relation. —Anne Bradstreet, from “Contemplations” #29
A Dead Baby
Joyce Ann took the shovel from the shed and dug the hole as quickly as she could in her flustered state. She laid the little thing unceremoniously at the bottom of the hole and started shoveling dirt on it.
She heard a faint whimper and just for the span of a heartbeat felt the urge to grab the thing and clean it off and stick its mouth to her breast. But she ignored that urge and continued to refill the hole.
The second and third and fourth shovels full of dirt were covering the thing but the whimper seemed to get louder, so she shoveled all the more furiously to stifle the noise. Finally, sweating and panting, she heaved a sigh of relief that the thing was gone, out of her life. Not a trace of its existence would follow her back to the house. She was safe now.
She could wash the blood from between her legs and walk to town and sit down at the drug store lunch counter and order herself a Coke, and nothing could stop her. She hoped she would see that soda jerk, Barry Flimstead. She would comb her hair and wear her best pink and white dress now. Now that she looked like her own self again. Maybe Barry would take her for a ride in his ’57 cherry-red Chevy.
Back inside the house cleaning herself up, she had to hurry; it was already past two o’clock, and Jiggs would be trudging in by three-thirty. But today she would not be there. And even if he came to the drug store looking for her, she would not be there either.
She would be out riding with Barry. She knew it would happen, now that she had unloaded that burden she had carried around all those months. Too bad it was born dead, she said to herself. Born dead. Born dead. It was born dead.
“Joyce Ann, where the hell are you?” Jiggs Batston was home early. She looked at the clock again. She was right, she knew she had at least an hour. Why was he home so early? Now her plans were ruined.
“Jiggs,” she answered, as she quickly pulled off her dress and threw on her ratty old housecoat. “Jiggs, I’m up here. I didn’t feel good and I took a nap. I’m coming down.”
“Why is the shovel laying out in the yard. I know damn well I didn’t leave it out. Now just who the hell did?” He grabbed her arm and twisted it and gave her one of those looks that scared the breath out of her.
“Ouch, Jiggs, I don’t know. I never saw any shovel. I been in the house all day. What I know about an old shovel?” She started to cry and pull her arm loose. But Jiggs just shoved her back.
He scowled and barked, “Where’s my goddam supper? I get home a lousy hour early. You damn worthless bitch can’t have my supper a hour early, can you? Hell, no, that’d be just too much for you. And I go work my ass off everyday to give you all this. And you’d better come up with some damn good reason for that shovel being out of the shed. Was it that neighbor Tom Tix fellow that borrows flower vases from you? You’d better come up with something damn good.”
He was more or less talking to himself now, as he headed outside to put the shovel back in the shed. He always did that though. His threats made her shiver, and she’d lived with them for over two years now, and she knew he’d knock her around later. He might even break her arm the way he did the first month he brought her here, but no matter what she told him he wouldn’t believe her.
Four months later Joyce Ann had finally snagged the attention of Barry Flimstead. In his ’57 Cherry-Red Chevy, he drove out along Fern Hill Road with Joyce Ann and pulled off the side of the road into a niche, a love nest for lovers who have no other sanctuary but their cars. Barry pulled Joyce Ann to him immediately.
Wasting no time, he shelled off her dress and underwear and his own pants in what seemed one movement, and he straddled her and began to pump hard and fast. Joyce Ann hardly had time to realize what was happening when Barry peeled off of her and reached to the back seat for a beer.
“Barry, did you like that?” Joyce Ann asked, putting her clothes back on.
“Hell, yes, I like to fuck. Don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do.” But she turned her head to look out the window, and she started to cry. She didn’t want him to see. So she held back as many of the tears as she could. Barry said, “Hey, give me a minute and I’ll pump you again. What d’ya say?”
“I gotta get back. Jiggs’ll be home soon and he’ll kill me if I ain’t there.”
“Well, OK. But I don’t see how he can kill you if you ain’t there.” She didn’t quite get it, so she leaned over to kiss Barry, but he reached back for another beer. Then he started the car and drove back to the drugstore.
She hoped he would kiss her now and ask to see her again soon, but he just parked the car, got out, and went into the drugstore without a word. Joyce Ann watched as he returned to his job behind the counter. She frowned and sighed and then started her walk back home.
As she was approaching the house, she saw a police cruiser with a flashing light and a bunch of men tromping around in the yard. She saw four fierce-looking German shepherds sniffing around. She feared that her secret had been discovered, but she stood back too far away to see that the corpse had actually been exhumed.
She began to think that somehow they found out that the baby wasn’t really dead when she buried it. They would arrest her. She would go to jail. What was she going to do? She decided to hide in the bushes and wait until they left. But they showed no signs of leaving. She thought they must be waiting for someone to show up.
She couldn’t let them catch her. She started walking back to town. But where could she go? She felt the only place she could go would be to Barry. Barry Flimstead and Tom Tix were the only two people she had really talked with, besides her husband, since he had brought her here.
But Barry wasn’t at the drug store. The manager said he took off early, said he had to go help his sister move. She sat at the fountain, drinking a Coke trying to figure out what to do. It was getting late. Jiggs would be home soon. She couldn’t go home now. With the cops there trying to arrest her for murder and Jiggs coming home.
He’d kill her just because she hadn’t been home on time. What a mess? But what if the police tell Jiggs about the baby? He didn’t even know about the baby. All the time she was pregnant he kept condemning her for getting fat. He’d call her a fat bitch. Tell her she’d better lose that weight or he was going to kick her blubber butt out.
He wouldn’t stay married to a tub of lard. When he’d climb on her at night, he always complained that her gut was in the way, mumbling that he couldn’t even get a good fuck out of her anymore.
She never told him she was pregnant, because she didn’t know it either. She also just thought she was getting fat. And the day the baby fell out as she reached up to swat a horsefly off the icebox, she could hardly believe that messy looking thing came out of her.
When she saw it was a baby, a boy, she imagined in a few years that two Jiggs’ would be blackening her eyes and beating her with belts and pushing her into furniture. She remembered her father and her brother used to gang up to teach her mom lessons about obedience.
And she remembered the day they taught her for the last time. At first she felt lucky at age fifteen that Jiggs Batston had come along and rescued her from that house. But less than a month after the rescue, Jiggs had started knocking her around and swearing at her the same way her father had done her mother.
What could she do now? It was very late. Nearly five-thirty and the drug store closed at six. She’d sat there for three hours trying to figure out what to do, and she hadn’t come up with anything. She figured she’d just go walking and think some more.
As she started to leave the drug store, the police cruiser was pulling up the street and when the officer saw her, he stopped the car. He stepped out of the cruiser, and Jiggs got out of the other side. Her face went sickly white, and she nearly fainted.
“Mrs. Batston, are you ill?” the officer asked Joyce Ann, as she stepped back to brace herself against the wall just outside the drug store. She looked at Jiggs. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. What kind of mood was he in? What would happen now?
“I’m all right. Can I sit down?” She started to slide down the wall. But the officer caught her and led her to the cruiser.
“Mrs. Batston, we need to ask you some questions. This is not going to be pleasant. And if you’d like to have a lawyer present you can. But there are some things we need to know, in light of a report we’ve had from your neighbor, Mrs. Jella Tix.”
“I don’t need a lawyer. Just ask me. What is it?” She looked at Jiggs, who had not said anything yet. But now his face started to show some signs. She saw that same look the day he pushed her down the stairs, and again the day he choked her until she thought she’d never be able to speak again.
His hands were balled up in fists that promised her the beating of her life. And he sneered through his teeth, “Just you wait. Just you wait.” She looked back at the officer and felt a strange, sudden surge of security. She knew what she had to do; she had to make sure she kept that feeling.
A Safe Place
“Mrs. Batston, according to Mrs. Tix, you were pregnant and gave birth to a baby about four or five months ago. Mrs. Tix’s pigs were in your yard today, and they dug up what looks life the corpse of a baby. Now we’ve sent the body down to Richmond for an autopsy. But we’d really like it, Mrs. Batston, and it’d go a lot better for you, if you’d just tell us what happened.”
“What will happen to me after I tell you?”
“Well, that depends. You could be charged with something as minor as an illegal burial to something as serious as murder. Now, Mrs. Batston, the autopsy will show that pretty conclusively. If that baby was alive when you buried him, then you can count on being charged with murder. What you tell me right now determines whether your husband takes you back home tonight, or I take you to jail. So Mrs. Batston, why don’t you just tell me the truth.”
“You mean, if I tell you that the baby was dead before I buried it I go home with Jiggs. And if I tell you the baby was alive when I buried it, I go with you to jail. Does Jiggs go to jail too?”
“No, Mrs. Batston, your husband didn’t even know you were pregnant. Some folks might have some trouble with that one. But it’s not against the law not being able to recognize that your wife’s pregnant.”
“Well, what if I tell you, I didn’t know if the baby was dead or not. That I thought it was, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Is that what you’re telling me?”
“No, I want to know what if I tell you that. Then where do I go?”
“Then I’d have to let you go, but you’d then be arrested or not depending on the autopsy. Mrs. Batston, the only way I could hold you right now is if you admit to murder. Do you understand all this yet?”
“I did it. I murdered it. I heard it whimpering whilst I’s shoveling the dirt in on top of it. I hated it because it made me fat. And it was a little Jiggs. I think it was a little
Jiggs. And I did it. Take me to jail. Take me away from Jiggs. Take me where it’s safe.”
Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real person or actual event.
Falling Grace
Grace Jackson began her freshman year at Ball State Teachers College with hopes of becoming an English teacher like her favorite high school teacher Mrs. Daisy Slone, an avid Shakespeare fan and scholar.
Grace Goes to College
In the Hoosier heartland of America, where cornfields stretch like the dreams of the early American settlers, stood Ball State Teachers College (later renamed Ball State University), a bastion of teacher education.
There among the ten-thousand or so students and armies of administrators came Grace Jackson, a freshman with eyes like the last autumn leaves—vibrant yet tinged with the inevitability of fall.
Grace was majoring in English, where in a world woven from words, each sentence threaded itself into the tapestry of her young life. She had brought her treasure trove of books in one suitcase, and her clothes in much smaller one. She had marveled at all the gear other students had carted into the dorms.
Her days were spent plumbing the nuances of Shakespeare and the Romantic tropes of Wordsworth, but her heart and hormones were captivated by a different history, one not bound by books but by the circling rhythm of a forbidden dance.
A Professor’s Gaze
Professor Ed Stewart, her professor in general studies American history, possessed eyes that seemed to have witnessed centuries, even as they betrayed the youth of a young scholar, for he was less than a decade older than Grace. In class, he held her gaze, thrilling to smiles this young co-ed flashed his way.
Those lectures became a prelude to the symphony of secrets they would share. They soon began to meet outside of class; at first, she just needed some advice about extra reading. Then they met just to talk and walk and finally . . .
For Grace, their affair became a clandestine sonnet, whispered in the shadows of the old library, where the dust of ancient texts seemed to conspire in silence. Here, time felt suspended, each stolen moment of hand-holding, passionate kissing, and sweet talk—all a defiance against the ticking clock of morality.
The sad fact was that Professor Stewart was a married man with two young daughters, but that marriage had long soured, and he felt unhappily tethered to a life with Darlene, whose laughter had once been the melody of his days, now the echo of a song he no longer sang.
Darlene had become a born-again Christian in a very strict denomination called Hard Shell Baptist, and Ed chafed under her constant nagging that he attend church with her and the girls. At ages 11 and 9, the daughters easily sided with the mother making Ed’s life a constant, bitter struggle with adversity
Moonlight and Shadows
One late evening, when the campus was fairly deserted, under the cloak of a moon that seemed to understand their forbidden desire, Ed led Grace to a secluded alcove in the shadows between the college library and the assembly hall.
The air was lightly scented with the fragrance of burning leaves from the neighborhood surrounding the school, and the stars above whispered secrets only lovers could hear. Here, in this shadowed hide-away, they sought solace that seemed to escape them in the cold light of day
Ed took her hand and whispered, “Now, we are not separated.” Ed’s touch was like the first pages of a cherished book, gentle yet eager to explore. His lips pressed against Grace’s, and she felt that her body would melt into his.
A rustling of clothing and their bodies sealed together in a passionate embrace. Grace felt a stab of virginal pain but then dismissed it as her mind flew into the utter romance of consummation.
Ed quietly spoke of a love that transcends the boundaries of their world. “We are but a footnote in history,” he whispered, his breath warm against her neck, “but let us write our own chapter tonight.” And he took her body again in a passionate rush
Their bodies, entwined like the ivy around the old stone walls, continued to pump with the rhythm of a salacious sonnet. This love scene, hidden from the prying eyes of the world, was their rebellion. They rationalized that it was their silent scream against the life they could not openly claim.
Grace’s Fall
Fall turned to winter, and with the first frost, Grace’s heart and mind hardened. She saw Darlene not as a person but as an obstacle, a leaf that refused to fall, clinging to a tree that should now be hers.
Grace etched her plan. She would feign the need for help with a project, one that she knew was dear to Darlene’s heart, Campus Kids of Christ.
On a Monday night, under a moon that seemed to mourn, Grace visited the Stewart’s modest home, while the professor and the girls were away. The plan was simple, as sinister as the frost that nipped at the earth’s warmth.
Darlene greeted her with a smile, unaware of the storm she harbored. Grace’s words were sweet, like poisoned honey, as she asked for help with a project, to raise money for the group CKC.
In the quiet kitchen, where Darlene turned her back to pour tea, Grace’s hand, guided by a dark resolve, found the handle of the knife. The act was swift, a betrayal that whispered through the steam of the kettle, sealing fate as irrevocably as the first snow seals the ground.
The Frame of an Innocent
Grace stole out quickly into the night that seemed to swallow her like the silence after a gunshot, but in her wake, she planted seeds of deceit. She decided to frame Lester Phillips, a fellow student, whose jealousy over grades made him a plausible suspect. The framing was meticulous, a work of dark art.
First, Grace began to plant clues. She had seen Lester’s disdain for Professor Stewart in class, his bitter accusations of favoritism. She used this knowledge, planting a scarf with Lester’s initials near the crime scene. She had taken it from his locker one day, a small theft that would later become a noose around his neck.
She then concocted a false alibi. She made sure Lester was seen arguing with Darlene at a university event a week before the murder, their voices raised in the heat of academic rivalry. Grace whispered rumors, ensuring this altercation was remembered.
Grace then borrowed several sheets of paper from Lester’s personalized stationery under the guise of needing to write a letter to her mother, and she hadn’t had time to go to the bookstore to purchase her own writing paper.
On Lester’s stationery, she composed and then sent a letter to Darlene; the missive was filled with veiled threats and anger, suggesting a buildup of hostility.
Then finally, in her own room, she left notes about Lester’s supposed obsession with Darlene, scribblings that hinted at an unhealthy fixation, all written in her hand but styled to mimic Lester’s handwriting, as she had done with his stationery. She had practiced Lester’s handwriting style from a paper he left behind in class.
Truth Will Not Hide
Lester, with his loud protests and defensive demeanor, became the scapegoat, his life unraveling like a poorly knitted scarf in the hands of an unjust fate. But shadows, even those cast by the cunning, have a way of revealing their source.
But the college, as a microcosm of the world, was not immune to whispers. The police, methodical in their search for truth, found discrepancies in Grace’s alibi, her motive buried but not deep enough. The poetry of her deception was undone by the prosaic truth of evidence.
Grace could never account satisfactorily for her visit to the Stewart home at the time of Darlene’s murder. Too many roommates in her dorm all knew where she had gone that night. And the blood on her coat and boots proved to be Darlene’s, not her own nose bleed that she had tried to claim.
Sentencing Grace
Grace’s trial was an intense spectacle, the courtroom a stage where her life was dissected with the precision of a scientist. The judge, an old man with eyes that had seen too many stories end badly, announced that the jury had found her guilty.
The judge sentenced her to death, a final act in a drama she had orchestrated but could not control. In addition to the murder, her attempt to frame an innocent man swayed the judge and jury to impose the death penalty.
In her cell, Grace awaited the end, her world now a stark contrast to the vibrant one she had envisioned. In her cell, there were no books, no metaphors to escape into, only the cold reality of bars and the echo of her own heartbeat. She wrote her last poem on the wall, words etched with the stub of a pencil, a confession and a lament:
The gray cell and the black bars seem to pray As I pen my fate: My love has melted away From my heart. His stubborn wife Clinging to my love brought death her way. She fell like a leaf under a cold, hard moon. She stole my innocence, so I die at noon.
The imagery of her life became clear in these lines—her ambitious delusions, her faux love, her crime, all intertwined like the roots of an old oak, now exposed. The poetry that once colored her world was now her shroud, each word a reminder of the affection she sought and the darkness she embraced.
As she continued to think of her former lover, she continued in a depraved solace knowing that although she would never cleave her body to his again, neither would Darlene, who was now nothing more than an object of hatred.
An insane, silent cry kept ringing through her brain that it was all Darlene’s fault that she was now facing death before reaching the age of twenty.
On the day of her execution, the sky was as gray as the walls of her cell, the air heavy with the scent of rain, not unlike the day she first met Professor Stewart. As she walked her final steps, she looked up, perhaps seeking redemption or merely an end to the story she had written with blood instead of ink.
The Legend
The college moved on, its halls echoing with old legends, new stories, new lives, but in the old library, where their affair began, one could almost feel the ghost of Grace Jackson, her passion, her folly, her poetry. The leaves outside turned, year after year, a reminder of life’s cycle, of love’s complexity, and the tragic, tumultuous, terrifying power of desire.
And Ed, left with the weight of his part in this tragedy, returned to his lectures, his words now haunted by the specter of what was once his heart’s desire, turned to pity by the very hands he once held.
He felt that he could not face his daughters after the shame he brought to the family, so when Darlene’s sister Natalie, who lived in Georgia, insisted on seeking custody of the girls, he readily bent to Natalie’s wishes and allowed his daughter to grow up without him.
Thus, the tale of Grace Jackson and Professor Ed Stewart became part of the legend of this Indiana heartland college, a dark narrative woven into the fabric of its history, a cautionary tale of attraction, ambition, and the fatal missteps of those who dare to step outside of the boundaries of moral truth.
Image 1: A Dog Named Spot – Helen Richardson – Family Album
Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real person or actual event.
Dedalus
“To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life!” —James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
They had kids. Their kids were their dogs. Their kids may be strange; they had never asked for a dog.
At 4 a.m.
Lane Rushington rolled out of bed at four a.m. as usual, heated her new favorite morning drink orange juice, sewed a patch on her fast-becoming-threadbare jeans, before she began writing. She heated her juice, because she had quit coffee but still craved something hot before breakfast.
She could have drunk herbal beverages, as Jane Ralston had recommended, but she didn’t like those beverages, so she stayed with what she liked—orange juice, and it was working out quite nicely.
It kept her from bouncing back into the caffeine habit. It had worked for a year. So what if the heat destroyed the vitamin C—what did caffeine ever do for her but make her nervous and forgetful and cause her heart to beat funny? At least, she always blamed the caffeine for making her heart beat funny—sort of skip a beat and flutter once in a while. So what? As long as it helped her stay off coffee.
About 6:15 a.m.
About six fifteen right as she was popping bread into the toaster, the phone rang. It was Jane. She was the best friend Lane had in the English department, a college instructor like Lane, who wanted to write great novels that would become best-sellers. Of course, they always complained that great novels do not become best-sellers, but they could hope, couldn’t they?
They had published short stories in literary journals. Jane had even sold one to Redbook, but that was ten years before Lane met her. They both blamed teaching for their slow progress in their writing careers.
They had that complaint in common, but actually little else. It’s the little else that caused Lane to feel not quite the camaraderie with Jane that she might have liked. And except for their riming names, they found little else to joke about.
Lane thought that Jane acted like a victim of a great conspiracy. Jane insisted that her writing was a great calling that would profit mankind—womankind, she always said, that is, if it were ever recognized for its true worth. She disparaged anything new—including the one new thing that could aid her the most in her writing career, the computer.
When Lane got her computer, she didn’t tell Jane for three months. They weren’t close on a personal basis. They never visited each other’s homes. Lane had a husband. Jane had a husband. But they had never met each other’s husband.
A James Joyce Symposium
So that morning, when Jane called, Lane was surprised.
“Hi, where have you been? I haven’t seen you yet this semester. How’s everything?” Lane tried to sound friendly despite the surprise.
“Lane, dear, I need to ask you a big favor and I’m somewhat overcome by, oh, a bit of shyness. I don’t want to take advantage of our quiet friendship,” Jane prefaced her request.
“Oh, well, gee, what is it? I’ll do whatever I can,” she tried to sound willing but not too committed so that she could back out if the favor was too distasteful.
“Jason has to go to Hawaii for a literary convention—a Joyce symposium, and I’m going with him,” Jane explained, sounding somewhat humble at first. “Hawaii, can you imagine what that will do for my repertoire of place names? I’ve longed to cross the Pacific, but the opportunity has thus far eluded me. And Jason is ecstatic that his paper on Joyce was accepted. There are so few opportunities to present the work—the seminal work—Jason is doing on Joyce. We both feel that this trip is much more than the ordinary tourist on holiday. We both feel that this is the opportunity to grow and contribute.”
“Sure, you’re right, what a great chance,” Lane said.
One Concern
“There is one concern, and that’s why I’m calling you. We have a dog, a Dalmatian named Dedalus, and he’s in great need of some loving care while we are gone. We just don’t have the heart to board him. I remember your telling me about a Dalmatian you had when you were growing up, and I recalled the love in your voice as you spoke of him. And when this concern over Dedi arose I thought of you immediately and hoped so much that you could keep him for us. Oh, I do hope you do this, and we will pay you more than the boarding kennel charges. We are just so concerned that our baby gets the best of care. We know that he will miss us terribly.”
“Oh, well, gosh, I haven’t had a dog since Duke—he was a great dog, and I’ve always thought that if I ever had another dog, it would be a Dalmatian like Duke.”
Lane was stalling, unsure about this venture. Keeping a dog. What would Rob think? They’d never thought about having a dog. Of course not. They had kids. Their kids were their dogs. Their kids may be strange; they had never asked for a dog. They only wanted turtles and mice.
Why did their kids never ask for a dog? All kids want dogs. But their kids were twenty-three and twenty-five now. Come to think of it, they both had dogs now. Maybe they should have a dog—she and Rob. Well, if she kept Jane’s dog, they could get a taste of dog ownership. Who knows, maybe it would be an opportunity for them to grow and contribute.
“Well, I just might do it, but I’d better check with Rob first to make sure he doesn’t mind or have some plans that would make it impossible. How soon do you need us as dog-sitters?”
Leaving Next Week
“We leave early next week, let’s see, the 3rd of October and we’ll arrive back the 13th. We’d like to bring him over perhaps the 1st—just in case it doesn’t work out, and we have to make other arrangements.”
“Well, I’ll talk to Rob about it and let you know tonight. I get home around 5:30, and I could call you then, if that’s OK,” replied Lane.
“That will be superb, I’ll be expecting your call around 5:30.”
Later that morning, before Rob left for the hospital, Lane brought up the topic of dog-sitting. After explaining who Jane was, and what she and her husband would be doing in Hawaii, she emphasized their reason for asking her to be in charge of their dog. He thought for a moment and said he had been thinking about getting a dog. And that it was OK with him.
But he added that he thought she would get attached to the animal and not want to give him up, and that she would probably be hoping they never came back. She told him that was just silly, and besides they could get their own dog if they really liked having one around.
No Survivors
Lane called Jane and told her that they would be glad to keep Dedalus. Jane was relieved and couldn’t thank her enough.
Jane and Jason brought Dedalus to Lane’s house as planned on the first of October. Dedalus and Lane fell immediately in love. He followed her everywhere around the house that evening. He ate blackberries from her hand, and Jane and Jason were amazed; they claimed that he ate only the finest cuts of prime steak from Lamphen’s Butcher Shop. But the dog would became a vegetarian in Lane’s house.
Of course, she did not tell Jane and Jason that only vegetarian meals would be served to their dog. Surely, they would have reconsidered letting the animal stay with Lane. But they soon departed, and Dedalus did not grieve or act as if he much cared that they were gone.
On the last day that they were to enjoy each other’s company, Lane got up that morning, as usual, heated her juice, shared some with her charge—she had been calling him Duke, feeling a little guilty, that maybe she and Duke/Dedi had grown too close—and just as she was sitting down to brush him, the phone rang.
It was Martha Cruelling, chairman of the English department; Jason and Jane had left careful emergency instructions for contacting everyone who had anything to do with their trip, and Professor Cruelling was calling to tell Lane that the plane carrying Jason and Jane back to the mainland had crashed near Maui, leaving no survivors.
Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real person or actual event.
Introducing Sharm Wilson
What will happen to Sharm? Is she doomed? Where is she going, walking these dark hallways?
In this bizarre tale, Sharm Wilson takes you on a bizarre journey, a slice of her life. She speaks her mind but seems to be trying to tell it like it is. Her off-the-wall language about her off-the-wall experience fosters the questions: What will happen to Sharm? Is she doomed? Where is she going, walking these dark hallways?
The story, like most pieces of fiction that writers write, stems from an incident in my own life, but it is greatly—and I emphasize “greatly”—embellished. And I am eternally grateful for that. Now just read the story and see what I mean!
Walking down Dark Hallways
Sharm was sleepwalking again. Oh, forget about it, I’m Sharm, and I’m not going to pretend again. I’m going to tell this story as myself. So if you don’t like it, that’s ok by me. Just don’t read it.
But ask yourself this, would a fakity fake bother to write all those words without some meaning. Hecky darn, don’t we all yearn for meaning? I just want to tell a little story here: so read or don’t. It’s totally up to you. I’ll try to keep it as clean as possible. I never intended for this to happen, but it did, and I wish so much that I could go back and make all the bad stuff go away, but then who don’t? Right?
At the Y
I was walking to my room at the Y, down the dark hallway. I shoved my key into the lock, opened the door, and went inside. I was so tired after a full day’s work at the salmon factory. (Oh please don’t expect me to tell you which salmon factory. If they knew that someone like me had been working there, they would probably arrest me.)
Anyway, I sat down on my bed and began to think about what I should do the rest of the evening. I decided to light up a joint to get me all relaxed. I knew pot was not allowed in this fine establishment, so I also lit an incense and a tobacco ciggy and went on with my tokes. Just as I was getting a good buzz, a knock comes at the door.
I moved the incense closer to the door, picked up my tobacco ciggy, tried to look as straight—meaning non-stoned—as I could, and then opened the door.
“Hello, Ms Wilson,” a matronly looking gal addressed me. “How are you this evening?”
“I’m ok,” I managed to spout out and then she laid it on me. “There have been complaints from other residents. Are you smoking marijuana in your room?” Feeling a little strained, I took a big puff off the ciggy and then announced, “Oh, no! I’m just smoking my regular Marlboros. I burn incense when I smoke because I like the smell of sandalwood better than tobacco. Is that a problem, ma’am?”
“Oh, no! You’re allowed to smoke in your room, for now. After September, I’m afraid even smoking cigarettes will not be allowed. So you might want to find a new residence, if you continue to smoke after September,” she explained, all the while seeming to buy that I was only smoking tobacco and not wacky tobacky.
“Well, thanks for letting me know. You know, I’ve been meaning to quit anyway. So maybe this is just another reason to do that.” She gave me a knowing look, an understanding look, and left.
It wasn’t five minutes later that another knock came at my door, and it was the cops, who pushed their way inside, found the four pounds of pot, and arrested me for drug dealing.
Tarnation, I had never dealt in drugs. Sometimes I had a lot of pot for personal use. They could never prove that I was a dealer so they had to let me go. But by that time, I had no job, no place to live, and so here I was walking down another dark hallway to another room in a dump called the Cozy Inn.
But I considered myself lucky. I had my freedom. I had the opportunity to look for work. And so when I found a job at the Cozy Dinner, I decided to turn over a new leaf, keep on the straight and narrow (I know that’s a cliché), and keep out of trouble.
Then Bruce came along. He was kind of cute, seemed to have lots of dough, and he started telling me stories about Vietnam. One time he and couple of buddies were captured and taken to a place where they were interrogated.
He thought they were going to become POWs, but that night he and the other two guys decided to break out of the little hut they are held in. They succeeded, made it back to their unit, and lived happily every after—they lived to be discharged from the Army with all their body parts in tact.
One night Bruce and I had just made out in the back seat of his station wagon down on River Road. He was a great lover—oh the stories I could make up, I mean tell, about his loving making! But then as we were getting our clothes back on, a big bang came down hard on the top of the car.
“Get out of there! You creeps! Step out of the vehicle!” a voice rang out loud and stern.
We could see the shape of a very large man, banging on the top of the vehicle, while he seemed to be encircling it, running fast.
Bruce opened the back hatch and yelled, “What the hell do you want? Who are you?”
The man suddenly was upon Bruce beating him with a huge flashlight. He kept beating and beating until Bruce lay a crumbled mass of flesh and bone, unrecognizable. Then the man spotted me.
He grabbed me like I was a sack of flour and headed for his own vehicle, where he dumped me inside on the passenger side and then entered the driver’s side.
I was so scared. I knew this was it. The day I would leave this world. The day I would be killed like an insect. I was shaking but suddenly I became very calm because I knew nothing mattered anymore. I was dead. And nothing mattered anymore.
What happened next is nothing short of bizarre, miraculous, out of this world,—oh crap, you decide!
Along Came Gerrod
“My name is Gerrod Slater,” Bruce’s killer started telling me about himself. “I’ve been looking for that sum-bitch for thirteen years. He killed my mother and sister while my father was serving in Vietnam. His name is not Bruce Slater; his name is Anton Norman. He would have killed you too, I’m damned sure of it.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked this new acquaintance.
“Like I said, I’ve been on his trail for 13 long, goddam years. I need to thank you for slowing him down. When he started making the moves on you, he kind of slipped. He stayed in the town a little too long. And I was able to follow him, check out his history, and then when I saw him on you pretty regular, I was able to catch him.”
Gerrod started his car and peeled out, leaving Bruce/Anton, leaving the night behind. The last night I would spend with Bruce. My mind was a chaos of images: but maybe I won’t die, but what do I do next?
Gerrod drove for several miles and then asked me, “Where do you want to go?”
“Oh, I’m staying at the Cozy Inn, next to the Cozy Dinner, where I work,” I said.
“Yeah, I knew where you worked, wasn’t sure where you stayed, though, but I know Anton lives in Darrtown with his wife and three kids. Wait, did I say, lives — I mean lived,” chuckled Gerrod.
“What are you going to do? How do you plan to get away with murdering Bruce?” I asked Gerrod.
“Well, you know, I hadn’t planned that far,” he said. “My only plan for the past 13 years has been to catch him and kill him. I guess all that planning took up my mind and I have no clue what to do next.”
“Won’t the cops be coming for you?” I asked. “If they come for me, what do you want me to tell them?”
“Look,” he said, giving a look that scared the crap out of me, “I don’t care what you tell anybody. I don’t care if the cops come for me. That’s just another story, another day. You get it. I reached a goal tonight that nobody can ever take away. Look, I’m free. You see, I could kill you too, and by all rights, I should, you are the only person on the planet who can put me at the scene of that scumbag’s death.”
I Ain’t No Rat
“Oh, yes, I see your point,” I said, as I started to exist the car. “I see I’ve asked too many questions. I hope you have a good life, whatever happens. Glad I could help you catch Bruce. Good-bye,” I said as I started to leave.
“Hey, wait!” Oh, God, he’s finally come to his senses, he’s going to kill me too.
“What?” I asked.
“Look, you seem like a nice young lady. Don’t go messing with the likes of Anton Norman again. You got your whole life ahead of you. Make something out of yourself,” advice from a guy who just slaughtered a fellow human being; still it made of lot of sense.
And Now?
That all happened five or so years ago. What have I done since? I’ve made up my mind to do as little as possible. All I really want is to live a life that doesn’t have my heart in my throat from time to time. Can you dig it?
I didn’t rat Gerrod out. Why should I? Just more crap that I’d have to suffer. I want to be as far away from law enforcement as possible, unless I’m being assaulted, robbed, or something.
But then that’s why I keep a very low profile now—just try to keep my waitress job and small apartment maintained. Took Gerrod’s advice about getting too close to handsome strangers.
Haven’t found the perfect answer though, and if you have a suggestion, I’d like to hear it.
Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real person or actual event.
Tipi for the Twenty-First Century
Lucinda Robertson returns to school to complete a master’s degree. She encounters a fellow student who seemed so interesting and sensually attractive but turns out to be full of a bizarre kind of deceit.
I think I should explain here, that the flesh represents ignorance and, thus, as we dance and break the thong loose, it is as if we were being freed from the bonds of the flesh. —Black Elk, “Wiwanyag Wachipi: The Sun Dance,” The Sacred Pipe: Black Elk’s Account of the SevenRites ofthe Oglala Sioux
After fifteen years, three children, a failed marriage, and five years of moping around a tiny apartment on the south side of Muncie, I decided to return to school at Ball State University to finish my master’s degree in architecture.
I needed only six graduate credits, but my advisor suggested I take some undergraduate courses in English composition and math. He also advised me to audit some architecture courses, claiming that a lot of new material had been added to the curriculum, since I had studied here twenty years ago.
So as advised, I enrolled in English Composition 111. During the first meeting the professor put us in groups of four or five students. Our assignment was to interview each other and write a short essay based on the interview. I was grouped with two freshmen and a senior. The senior began the conversation.
“I guess the first thing is to find out each other’s names. I’m Sled Wheat.” He turned to me, and in his leadership tone asked, “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“I’m Lucinda Robertson. And I know I’m the oldest student in the room, but you don’t have to call me ‘ma’am’, do you?” I responded.
“Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. There are a number of non-traditional students on campus now, and I’ve met many of them in my classes, but I didn’t even think you were a non-traditional, you look so young,” he schmoozed.
“Well, thank you, I think . . . I mean, well, are you a non-traditional?” I queried.
“Oh, no, that is, not in the ordinary meaning of the term. I’m somewhat non-traditional in that I’m a year younger than most seniors,” he said.
After the girls had introduced themselves, we paired off and began the interviewing. Sled Wheat was my partner, and he soon got into fairly personal matters.
“Do you think your ex-husband missed you that much and moped around those five years?” he inquired.
“I doubt it, since he was the one who left. I do have to admit I was lucky he helped me financially. My job at the bookstore couldn’t support me and our three children. But then Harold wasn’t stingy with money, just his love. And I wanted his love, not just his money. I’m sorry I babbled on about that. That can’t interest you. I always get down in the dumps when I talk about love. Let’s talk about our majors. What’s yours?” I replied.
“Psychology with a minor in classical studies,” he said.
“That sounds deep. And like a lot of work. Do you graduate this year?” I asked.
“Actually, I finish all my course work this quarter. But I’m hanging around for winter and spring to catch up on some courses I wanted to take but never had time for. How did you ever get into architecture?” he continued.
“I just always design stuff, kind of, in my head—mostly buildings, and usually buildings that look like tipis—and then I draw them as close as I can to my vision. My art teacher in high school was impressed with my drawings and suggested architecture as a major in college. I’ve always felt that was the right choice, even though I didn’t finish my master’s. I only have about 6 hours to finish. I didn’t expect to have to take undergraduate courses in English and math, but it’s kind of fun being in classes with all these young students,” I explained.
“Are you seeing anyone special right now?” he asked.
“You mean dating-seeing, like a boyfriend?”
“Well, yeah.”
“No, I haven’t had any relationships since Harold—well, one, but it didn’t go anywhere. I don’t know—I guess I’ve been hurt too much. I know that must sound sappy and like I’m sorry for myself, but in high school I got my heart broken really bad; I had a steady, Ed Jackson. He’s part Oglala Sioux, like me, and we studied our heritage together, we read everything we could find about our Lakota people; after we graduated we spent the summer on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota; we both have relatives there. He wanted to take part in the Sun Dance, but for some reason they wouldn’t let him, but we did participate in some other religious rituals. Anyway, I thought he loved me as much as I loved him, but then he dumps me and starts going with Kate Sooner. Kate had a reputation . . . you know, like she was kinda loose. I’d hear guys sniggering about her, saying stuff like, ‘see Sooner for a nooner’ and ‘I’d rather Sooner than later’ or something like that. Anyway, I freaked out, when Ed dumped me for her. I didn’t trust any guys for a long time. And by the time I met Harold, I had avoided relationships until I made it almost impossible for Harold to begin one with me. I think I must have something in my nature that makes men have difficulty committing to me permanently,” I explained, likely imparting too much information.
“Well, it’s probably not you. It must be them. Harold was probably intimidated by your strength, and Ed, well, if you were both in high school, you could probably blame that on youth. It seems that women are usually more stable earlier than men in relationships. That’s true I believe, and they disconcern [He actually used that “word” a lot. Later I found out it wasn’t really a word. I should have told him, I guess. Oh, well, surely someone in graduate school would set him straight.] the compatibility of psychological and physical make up which is highly ambiguous at best. But that provides the motive for devising a philosophical code of life. What do you feel is your own personal code of life?” he rambled on.
“I just want to live and let live,” I, becoming a bit uncomfortable, replied.
“Yeah, but that’s not always possible. You can’t always find that you can disconcern every detail of your existence. You have to take a stance, like with your son. Why don’t you suggest to him that he get his own apartment or live on campus in a dorm? That way your daughters couldn’t hassle you all the time about coddling him,” he now was becoming my advisor.
“But I don’t want him to do that. He has no money, no job. He’s just a freshman. If it weren’t for his scholarship, he wouldn’t be in school at all, and his scholarship only pays tuition. You said yourself that you still live at home with your parents, and look at you, you’re 21. My son has plenty pressure on him just being a student. You know that. And I don’t coddle him. He does a lot for me—he helps clean the apartment, and he usually does the grocery shopping. The girls are just too eager to be mothers. They’re practicing by bossing me around. Besides, what’s this got to do with a life code?” I was becoming a bit annoyed.
“It shows what your life code is. You are obviously over-influenced a great deal by your son—well, your children. Here you are at school primarily to upgrade your employment in order so you can buy a house because your daughters want a nice place to bring their children—children that they don’t even have as of yet. And your son does a little cleaning and grocery shopping for you, and you think that’s enough to warrant your still supporting him,” he pontificated again.
“Don’t your parents support you—didn’t you say you still live at home?” His impertinence was becoming annoying.
“I do, but I do have a job that covers the expenses for my recreational activities. I think there is a significant difference in the dynamic of my situation,” he rebutted.
“Well, I think I have enough to write my essay now. Thanks for the information,” I said, trying not to sound as disgusted as I really was.
Annoyed by this young man’s arrogance, I took my notes, turned away to begin writing. Sled turned his attention to the two freshmen girls in our group and talked with them the rest of the time. After about twenty minutes, the professor ended interview time and instructed us write our essays.
Since I had already been writing for that twenty minutes, I decided to revise what I had. As I read through my paper, I realized that the tone was bitter. I decided that I should not judge this Sled Wheat so harshly; after all, I hardly knew him.
So I filtered out the bitterness as much as I could. I could tell my writing needed some fine tuning. I decided it was a good thing I was taking a composition course.
By the end of the class period, I felt tense and tired; it had been a long day, and I couldn’t wait to get home to relax. Out in the parking lot, as I was unlocking my car, I heard a voice call out, “Lucinda.” I looked around, not many people have that name, and the voice sounded vaguely familiar.
“I wanted to tell you I enjoyed talking with you, and well, if you don’t have to get home right away, maybe we could continue our conversation; how about walking over to the Dug-Out, have come Cokes or something?” I will never know why I said yes to this suggestion.
We went for Cokes. And every Tuesday and Thursday night after class Sled suggested we continue our conversation. Usually we’d walk to the Student Center, or we’d go to the Dill Street Bar and Grill. We found we had a lot in common.
He told me that his mother’s father was part Hopi, and he had started studying the Hopi religion. He believed that the Native American religions were more natural and compatible with human life than the religion of preachers like Billy Graham.
I told him that I had been scared silly listening to preachers who promised sinners hell-fire and damnation. I could never figure out if I was a sinner or not. So I had just stopped listening to anything religious until I had started researching my Lakota background. We liked Mexican food—the hotter the better.
Sled had broken up with his girlfriend recently, and he, therefore, felt he understood how I felt about my marriage break up. He seemed so mature and intelligent and at the same time awkward and naive, and I think that combination of qualities endeared him to me.
I began to enjoy these conversations and looked forward to them, and when he didn’t appear in class one Tuesday night, I was disappointed and worried. But at Thursday’s class he told me he had to take his mother to the airport; her sister in Arizona had suddenly fallen ill.
He usually insisted on driving his mother places, because he didn’t trust his father’s driving. But he said he had really missed talking with me Tuesday night and asked if I was busy Saturday. He invited me to take a drive with him to Brookville Lake where his parents own a cabin.
The lake was beautiful. The cabin was more like a mansion than a cabin, I thought. Sled pulled out two beers from the refrigerator and said, “Let’s go sit on the deck. We can watch the boats. And maybe see some fish jump up out of the water.”
“So you and your family spend a lot of time here?” I asked.
“Mom and Dad come down almost every weekend. I come when I can. Especially when I think Dad isn’t really up to that long drive. I do worry about them driving. It’s certainly an irrational primal fear. I know Dad is healthy enough and a capable driver, but I almost lost my mother once in a car accident, and that latent fear motivates me to try to protect her,” the little psychiatrist offered his self-analysis.
“You care a great deal about your mother, don’t you? I admire that in a son. Daniel and I are close, but he doesn’t worry about me, which is good, because I couldn’t stand the thought of my child trying to protect me. I hated it when my parents tried to protect me,” I said.
“Well, my mother is the most important person in my life. Everything I do I try to think about the effect it could bring to bear on her. Of course, I don’t live the life of a celibate monk, and she knows it, but I do try to consider everything carefully. That’s part of my code of life.” Sled stopped talking and took a long drink of beer.
I stood up, walked to the railing of the deck, took a sip of my beer, and looked out over the lake. A warm breeze flustered the water into tiny ripples, and I enjoyed the feel of it on my face. I hadn’t been out of Muncie for several months, and this was turning out to be the most pleasant trip I had had in many years.
I took a deep breath, and felt Sled standing close behind me. He leaned against me, put his hands on my arms, and rubbed up and down. I leaned back against him. I felt nervous. All the time we had spent together was time spent talking. Now we were touching.
Sled lifted my hair and kissed my neck. I moved against him. He moved up to my face, and he took my mouth with his. Our tongues searched each other for a long moment.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time now. I hope you don’t mind too much,” he said.
“No, I don’t mind at all.” I wanted to be composed and cool, but inside I was trembling, and as I looked into his deep blue eyes, I fell in love. Some little voice kept taunting me, “you foolish woman, you foolish woman”—like a chant, but I ignored it; I ignored it because it was so warm and wet, swimming in those eyes.
“I want to make love to you, but I guess I’ve been a little bit afraid that you’d reject me, and that would crush my masculine ego. But I don’t want you to feel pressured. You know? Like I got you down here to trap you? I’d still enjoy being with you even if you don’t want sex with me. I wanted you to know that. I think about you a lot when we are apart, and I do really care about you,” he confessed, and I was captivated.
“Thank you for saying that. It makes me feel better. I think one of the worst things a woman can feel is that a man is interested in her only for sex. It’s not that we don’t want a man to be interested in the sex; it’s just that when sex is the only thing, it destroys even the sex. I’m babbling, I must sound idiotic—does that make sense?” I was becoming flustered.
“Perfect sense and I’d say men feel that way too. And I would assert that sex is only good between really good friends, and we have become the best of friends, wouldn’t you say so?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes, I would definitely say so,” I brazenly lied.
Then Sled leaned in close to me again. I felt his body against mine. I felt his hair, let it stream through my fingers. We kissed again, a long kiss, soft and sweet and warm; then he led me to the giant bed in the master bedroom.
“Oh mother, oh God, oh mother, oh sweet Jesus!” Abruptly, he pulled out, stood over me, just stood for a moment, dripping cum on my belly; he rubbed his eyes and looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time, and said in a strange tone, “That was a real trip, lady.” And he went to the refrigerator and brought us two beers.
Sunday I worked on my architecture project. The assignment was to design a living space for the twenty-first century. I got out my old designs to search for ideas.
I had come to the conclusion that the only real way to move into the twenty-first century and be environmentally correct was to look back to the American Indian way of living and incorporate some of the features of the tipi.
I hoped it wasn’t racial pride that led me to believe that, and when I read about the feasibility of many Native American customs in my textbook, I felt I must be right.
So as I thought about the project, I knew I would have to do something with the idea of a tipi as living space.
I had thought a lot about Sled’s idea about a “code of life,” and I figured that mine was to love and be of service to those I love. I had long thought that the isolated nuclear family caused tension and stress that could be alleviated with an extended family concept.
Not only could children remain part of the family unit, but others could be brought in to form a family of friends who love one another.
It seemed to me that with such a change in attitude there would be no homeless, no abused children. Vast communities of loving extended families would cover the globe, and peace would finally arrive on earth.
What an idealist! Or was I just naive? No matter. I liked the idea. I guess my ideas were just throw-backs to the sixties, but after all I was influenced by hippies and civil rights activists.
It occurred to me as I worked on my “tipi for the 21st century” that maybe I could conduct an experiment to test my idealism; maybe Sled could be part of it.
My tipi project included a main building, with surrounding compartments, and each compartment as well as the main central building would have a central area that contained a huge fireplace ventilating upward like a tipi opening; the fireplace would serve as a gathering place for all the family members.
It would also serve as the place to cook meals as well as to keep each compartment warm. I wasn’t yet sure about other details such as sleeping arrangements and building materials; I had to research that. But by Sunday night I was truly excited with my ideas and plans, and I couldn’t wait to tell Sled about them and get his ideas.
I arrived at class a little early on Tuesday hoping to talk to Sled before class. I had tried to call him a couple of times Monday, but I never found him home. So I was doubly excited and terribly eager to see him.
But class had started by the time he arrived, so I couldn’t talk to him. When class finally ended, I got up and looked around, but Sled had left. He hadn’t even waited to speak to me at all. I was shocked, so I ran out to see if I could catch him. He had vanished. Wednesday I tried calling and could never find him home.
By Thursday I had begun to panic. I could not understand why he would deliberately avoid me. What had I done? I thought we were friends, lovers; what was going on? Instead of going into class, I waited at the door for Sled. He arrived ten minutes late.
“Sled, can we talk?” I said.
“Oh, hi, how’s it going?” he replied listlessly.
“Well, I’m a little confused. I haven’t heard from you. You bolted from the classroom Tuesday before I could even say hi. Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, nothing. I’ve been pretty busy, but nothing’s wrong,” he said.
“I have some things to tell you about my tipi project. Remember? I told you a little about it on the way to Brookville Lake,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. I’d love to hear it, but I really have to run. I don’t have time right now. Maybe next week. It was nice talking to you. Really gotta run,” he said, bolting from me, again leaving me confused.
And that’s what he did. And that’s what he did every class night. He arrived late to class and ran as soon as class was over. I felt so confused. Just totally baffled. Everything he had said to me since that first night he asked me to go for Cokes had indicated to me that we were close friends. We had shared so many details of our lives.
I thought he was a fascinating individual, full of spirit and courage. And I thought he felt the same way about me. Once in a while the nasty thought occurred to me that all this young man had wanted was a sexual encounter with me, and every time I thought that I dismissed it as a silly idea.
That just didn’t make any sense. Why would a young man pursue a woman twice his age only for a sexual encounter? I reasoned that our relationship had to be based on more than sex; it had to include friendship—hadn’t he said so?—and I wanted his friendship back. I thought that if he would just tell me what I had done wrong, I could make amends and we could continue.
So I kept calling and finally reached him the day before our last Thursday class meeting; I asked him if we could just talk for a few minutes. He said he would have some time right after class on Thursday. So after class we went for coffee at the Student Center.
“Sled, I really miss you. I know you’ve been busy, but I feel like I’ve done something wrong. And I wish you’d tell me what it is, so I can fix it. I thought we were good friends, and even good lovers, I just don’t understand what’s happened.” I didn’t want to do it, but I started to cry. I tried to catch the tears before they ran down my cheeks.
“It’s not you. It’s . . . well, it’s something I realized about our relationship and quite frankly it made me sick. And it’s really me as much as it is you. I think it affects us both. But I am willing to accept my part of the perversity,” he began his confession.
“Perversity? What do you mean? Do you think there is something perverse about our relationship?” I responded, incredulous.
“Well, I’ve thought about it a lot, and I realize now exactly what our attraction was. At first I tried to disconcern myself to it but now I am facing it . . . it’s Oedipal. You see, you love your son a great deal and feel very close to him, and I love my mother and feel extraordinarily close to her. So it’s your latent sexual attraction to your son that attracts you to me, and the same for me.”
“You mean . . . you would like . . . to have sex with your mother? And so you think . . . having sex with me has something to do with that?” totally incredulous, I stammered.
“And the same for you, even though you try to disconcern yourself to it, you have a latent . . .” Before he could finish, I stood up, and for a long moment, I gazed at his beautiful, deceptive face. Then stunned and amazed, I turned and walked away.
Lady Susanne took her tea after Oliver had swept off the veranda. While sitting in her favorite old Victorian chair, sipping delicately from her favorite old Victorian tea cup . . .
Fiction Alert! This story is fiction. It does not depict any real person or actual event.
The Outset
“Let my soul smile through my heart and my heart smile through my eyes, that I may scatter rich smiles in sad hearts.” —Paramahansa Yogananda
Oliver stood by the zinnias holding an umbrella, hoping the rain did not begin before he had completed his pruning off all browned blooms. Mrs. Bronsly stepped out of the house, spied Oliver and went back inside to fetch a broom.
“Oliver, here, sweep off the veranda! Lady Susanne will be taking her tea out there momentarily,” barked Mrs. Bronsly.
“I thought Callie had already broomed off the veranda and the kitchen pantries as well,” retorted Oliver.
“No, she has not! Now skip to it. Time is getting short!” Mrs. Bronsly, the head house matron, was never shy in shouting orders to her whopping team of three: Oliver, butler and footman, Callie, kitchen maid, and Mrs. Donwell, lady’s maid to Lady Susanne.
On a Shoestring
The little household was held together on a shoestring. But Lady Susanne, last living member of the Frawling earldom, was determined to finish out her days as her ancestors has done.
When offered three times more than what her 1500 measly acres were worth, she literally spit and cried, “I’ll never sell my inheritance for a pittance.” Thus, she pushed on with a pension that somehow still managed to support her acreage and small house staff, if only barely.
After being ceremoniously dressed in her finest tea frock by Mrs. Donwell, Lady Susanne took her tea after Oliver had swept off the veranda.
While sitting in her favorite old Victorian chair, sipping delicately from her favorite old Victorian tea cup, she spied off into the distance a motorcar crossing the bridge onto her estate.
Startled at first, she searched her memory: “Was I expecting guests today? I do not seem to recall arranging for visitors on this fine afternoon. Who, on earth, could that be? Likely another relative! Ha, relative, indeed!”
Mrs. Bronsly also had seen the motorcar and immediately called for Oliver. It had been foreordained that Oliver would greet any visitor to the estate.
Being the only man on the premises, the other women deemed it right that Oliver should be the first to inspect whoever might be accosting the serenity of Frawling Manor.
Oliver in Charge
Oliver stepped out of the front door and approached the vehicle. Out from the vehicle alighted a very young woman, and it appeared that no one else was accompanying her.
“Hello there!” said the young woman. “You must be the butler. I’m Estelle Frawling, and I’ve come for a visit with my Aunt Susanne.”
“Oh, really? I was not aware that anyone had arranged a visit with Lady Susanne for today,” replied Oliver.
“Well, I didn’t arrange anything. I’m here from America, and I did an ancestry search and discovered that I am related to the Frawlings of Devonshire. That’s this place, right?’
“Yes, ma’am, this is Frawling Manor of Devonshire, but . . . ” replied Oliver.
“Oh, I’m so sorry if I’ve made a faux pas,” said Estelle. “I don’t know anything about the ways of the British, and I was just flabbergasted to learn I was related to them. But, dude, here I am, warts and all. And I’d really like to see my aunt. Can you take me to her?”
“I’ll see what I can do, Miss! Please wait here!” As usual, Oliver went into a lather about this development.
So he sped off to find out what happens next. He had encountered such inquiries before, and they all seemed to end similarly—with a call to the local magistrate.
Only Lady Susanne could get to the bottom of things, and Oliver suspected she would do so again with dispatch.
“Mrs. Bronsly, there is a young lady outside who claims that she is Lady Susanne’s cousin or something. What am I to do with her?” a flustered Oliver sputtered.
The Usual Relative from America
“A relative of Lady Susanne? Oh, well, let her in. We’ll see how this goes. As usual, I suppose,” responded Mrs. Bronsly.
“Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am!” said Oliver, speeding off the fetch the new arrival.
Oliver bounded outside to fetch Estelle, only to find her picking daisies from the front garden. He was unsure how to approach, but he decided to let drop the impropriety of such a move.
“Miss Estelle, please do come inside,” said Oliver.
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” responded Estelle.
Once inside, Mrs. Bronsly welcomed Estelle and asked her to wait in the library while she went to inform Lady Susanne of the guest’s arrival.
Estelle entered the library, which was very small, she thought, having been influenced by the libraries she had seen in British films and the TV series Downton Abbey.
Interestingly Eclectic Library
Nevertheless, the library was interestingly eclectic, with titles such as Jiggery-Jee’s Eden Valley Stories and Turtle Woman and Other Poems, both American independently published tomes, standing along side such classics as Autobiography of a Yogi, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and Sonnets from the Portuguese.
Estelle had never read such works, but she knew of some American published works and recognized that paperbacks were an oddity in these British libraries.
“My dear, may I welcome you to Frawling Estate Manor,” Lady Susanne announced, making her grand entrance into the library.
“Oh, hello, Aunt Susanne, I am Estelle Frawling,” said Estelle. “It is so good to meet you. I’ve come from America. I’ve been researching my ancestry which has led me to you. I do hope I am not intruding.”
Tea and Biscuits for the Guest
“Sit, sit with me a spell, and we shall see how intrusive you have been,” said Lady Susanne, who rang for Mrs. Bronsly and requested Callie prepare tea and biscuits for the guest.
“So, now tell me all about it. Why you believe us be related?” Lady Susanne cut to the quick.
“Well, I did a search on my ancestry and that’s what I found. My mother’s father’s brother had twelve children. One of those children is you. That makes you my aunt—actually grandaunt.”
“Oh, I see. But there we have slight problem. I have only one sibling, who died in infancy. I am not one of thirteen. How would you explain that?” queried Lady Susanne.
“Easily! My father’s brother had a number of illegitimate children. You are the only one who is legitimate. That’s why you don’t know about the others, but an ancestry search will reveal all that,” returned Estelle.
“The only difficulty with that is that my father also was an only child. He had no brother!” responded Lady Susanne.
Illegitimacy Galore
“Again, your father was the only legitimate child of his father. The brother was illegitimate, that is legally. I’m not interested in legal shit, I’m interested only in blood! You are my blood. Don’t you see that?” responded Estelle.
“What I see before me, young lady, is what the Americans call a ‘gold digger’. You think you can come in here and convince me of a relationship that does not exist in order to acquire some of what you think you might inherit. Miss Estelle Frawling, if that is your name, I entertain guests like you in abundance. And I have yet to find one who is even minimally credible. I know my own ancestry like the back of my hand. We British estate owners learned very early on the necessity of such knowledge.”
“But surely you can see that we could be related?” offered Estelle.
“Sorry, Miss Estelle, I have my entire family tree on file at the Records Office in Devonshire. And that is the only legal, official record for purposes of inheritance. If you’d care to travel there to inspect it, I’d be happy to accompany you,” responded Lady Susanne.
“Oh, I see! Well, I wonder if I can get my money back from the ancestry research company!” said Estelle, stabbing at one last chance.
“That you will have to find out for yourself, Miss Estelle,” said Lady Susanne.
The tea and biscuits arrived as Estelle Frawling was departing. Mrs. Bronsly was not surprised; she inquired, “Another grifter?”
“Yes. This time we were all descended from illegitimacy. Americans seem to love illegitimacy nowadays. It’s the new missing at sea or war. What will they think of next?” said Lady Susanne.
Lady Susanne continued to receive such guests, claiming relationship with her. She decided that Americans, Albanians, the French, the Italian, and even the Zimbabweans would continue to try to feed off the British Empire, though that Empire had long ceased to exist.
Lady Susanne did finally sell her estate and to an American, who planned to build a Disney World. Her life closed with her still wondering what a Disney World was, never condescending to visit one—or even ask about it.
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