The Ribbon Box, Chapter Two

February 4, 2012 by Leave a Comment

The small funeral procession wound its way through the back streets of our little town. Unfortunately, Tim‘s Tavern was between our house and the cemetery, and as we approached, my daddy pulled in, put on the brakes, hopped out and proceeded to enter for a “shot and a beer” while the hearse and eight cars came to a screeching halt.

Later that morning, we sadly watched as our mother’s coffin was lowered into the ground.  I heard the minister chanting something about “ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” and I elbowed Teddy a good one. “Whaddya want, twerp?” he growled.

“Why’s he talkin’ about our daddy’s cigarette ashes and mama’s dust cloth,?” I asked in my softest voice.   He glowered me back with a look so evil it crossed my mind that perhaps the wrong family member was being put in the ground. Well, white collar or no, it seemed to me that minister could’a showed a little more respect for our mama.

“Now I hope you three won’t be strangers to our little church,” he said to my dad, after the flowers had been thrown on top of the box and the dirt shoveled in. “Stop off at the rectory and pick up a packet of envelopes from my secretary.” He was well aware that my parents were not regular church-goers, and even less loyal contributors to the church coffers that afforded him the luxury of skimming some change now and then to purchase a trinket or two for the aforementioned Myrtle.

When my mother and daddy had a little bit left over from payday, they liked to spend an occasional Saturday night at Tim’s for some drinking and dancing. The evening of the interment , he pronounced: “Sunny and Teddy, I’m going out for a while with some friends to remember your mother.”

Although my heart was broken and confused, my father left us to join a few older relatives and folks for a night of alcoholic bereavement, and I was left to contend with my brother who spat out: “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll pipe down and read one of your comic books. I’ll be in my room and don’t bother me or I’ll murder you before you know what Spider Man is going to do next.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice, because he often carried out his threats, like the time he took the scissors to my Raggedy Ann and then snickered “Isn’t that why she’s called ‘Raggedy’Ann?” During the night, I awoke to hear my dad stumble around the kitchen, drag out the big red chair, throw himself into it, and bawl his eyes out.

***

Our neighborhood was quite diverse: There were Italians, Irish, Poles, Chinese (who owned the laundry and had as many as a dozen relatives scurrying about on their softly-padded slippers, scrubbing grimy collars, hand-ironing men’s shirts, and all the while keeping rhythm at their scrub-boards with their high-pitched clickety-clack chatter, not unlike the tracks their forefathers had laid for us eighty years before.) There were Christians, Jews, red necks, young married folk just getting started, and many families like our own with two or three children, lower to middle class, just trying to make ends meet; however, there was one denominator that each of our houses had in common: you never knew what went on behind the closed curtains.

After my mother’s murder, the police made a few visits, fewer inquiries, and showed little interest in pursuing any leads. There were only three in our local police department at that time.  Mike Bullard, who legitimately came by the nickname ‘Bully’, was burly, rude and loudmouthed; but his grandfather, uncle, father and brother had at one time been on the force, so he was automatically destined to persue the law.  “So you say you didn’t hear anything? So you say you didn’t see anything? Well, I guess that must mean that you’re either deef or blind as a bat, huh?”

The newest kid to join the force was Tommy O’Riley, who was quite polite, but not too swift behind the ears. “Excuse me ma’am, I hate to bother you, and I can see you’re busy, so if this isn’t a good time, why don’t I just come back later.”

And then there was Sammy Quintano, whose only expertise was extracting information by way of pressure on the local business people. “Howdy there—if you know anything about that murder, I’d be obliged for information, and in return, you can count on me the next time you need any sort of protection.” He spent many an afternoon with a lonely housewife.

These three asked a few curt questions of the neighbors, who seemed to have convenient alibis, and a couple of weeks later, it was Sam who concluded before the chief that “we’ve talked it over and are pretty damned certain this was committed by a passerby. We doubt it would do any good to continue the investigation, as our funds, limited as they are, would be better spent elsewhere.” (“Toward our raises” was left unsaid, but certainly implied.) Within days, the crime went from front page news, to the second page, then lower case on the back page amidst the advertisements, and finally dropped off like a fish at the end of a pole—too small to be kept.

Now the nights were cool enough for blankets, the days began with the need for sweaters, and after a few weeks of household security, once again the doors were left unlocked, and we thought nothing of it.

Filed Under: The Ribbon Box: Chapter 2

The Ribbon Box, Chapter One, Summer, 1943

January 30, 2012 by Leave a Comment

       In my neighborhood, the doors and windows were never locked, and in the warmth of summer, each was flung open at all hours like a gaping maw, gasping for one last long pull of cool air. I still believed in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the assumption that humans would always ’be’.   After all, weren’t they called human beings?

       The only fear in my young life was that of the Rag Man. On an irregular basis, a dappled-gray horse pulling a large cart, clomped down my narrow street, and sitting atop an enormous pile of rags and old clothes was an aged black man with wild and wiry hair crying out “Rags–Rags–Rags for Sale.”  In order to keep me from straying far from my home, I was threatened repeatedly by my parents: “The Rag Man Will Get You If You Don’t Watch Out!”

       And so it was on a hot and sticky late July morning, that I trudged down the steep steps from my bedroom, dressed in pink plisse pajamas, blond ringlets all askew, rubbing the overnight sleep from the corners of my eyes, and dragging an old woolen blanket with its wide stripes of red, green and yellow. A large stain from a vomited glass of purple grape juice acknowledged a faded bull’s eye in the very center of the blanket. Although it had been cleaned many times, the process was without success and thus, the blotch had become a part of my short, almost seven-year old history.

       I could hear my mother humming even before I reached the  large but spare kitchen with the patched linoleum floor, and the big old gas stove.  In the corner by the back door was the painted wooden table with four mismatched chairs:  Mine, daintier than the rest, my brother’s missing a bottom rung which my dad had sawed off much earlier in a rant to keep his feet on the floor, and my mother’s–tall and narrow with a flowery ruffled pillow on the seat. My daddy’s was the largest of all and had been painted many times over–most  recently In bright red lacquer.

       The old, burled Philco radio was playing “Pennies From Heaven” and mother was bending over the gas oven to light it with a safety match, humming to the tune. She was a very pretty woman with short, black curly hair–the product of perms and dyes, and she was quite trim. Today she was dressed in pants which was unusual for women, but she had always been, as they say, “ahead of her time”. She smoked, enjoyed her afternoon cocktails, had a wicked sense of humor, and was a bit of a flirt.

       “Good morning, Sunny,” she whispered, as she hugged me and kissed the top of my head. “Today’s the day, isn’t it?” I responded by squeezing her around the waist. I breathed in mama’s scent–tobacco and Sen-Sen, and as usual, the combination of the two comforted my heart. “I could smell the cherries all the way upstairs,” I whispered.

       Mama had wrapped a a brightly patterned scarf around her head to prevent any wayward hairs from falling into her baking. The scarf, a Five and Dime purchase sometime back, could be found covering her head when cooking, around her waist when dressing up or dangling from her pocketbook when shopping. It was vibrantly colorful and she knew it was an attention grabber.

       “I’ve been up ever since your daddy left for work. First the picking, then the cleaning, and I just finished the dreadful pitting, and you know how much I hate that part!  Thank goodness I hadn’t used up all our sugar ration for the month.”

       “I would’a helped you pit,” I said disappointedly. This was to be a very special pie–my daddy’s birthday pie. He always requested a sour cherry pie, the cherries ripe and pendulous from our very own tree, rather than a birthday cake.

        I knew mother and daddy were happy with each other because they whispered together, hugged a lot, and at night, even though I wasn’t allowed to jump on the mattress in my bedroom, thru the thin walls, I could hear them jumping on their mattress. Their low sighs of ‘oh, oh, oh’ kept a rhythmic cadence to the twanging of the bedsprings. That was fine with me–I had always been told that as a child, I didn’t have the privileges of an adult, so I looked forward to jumping on my mattress when I grew older.

        Last week, mother gave me an empty coffee can and a broken spoon and I padded out to the garden, scooped dirt into the can, ran water into it from the garden hose, and mixed it into a slurry. After dumping it out, I fashioned an ashtray, let it bake in the hot sun and painted it. The sections in my Prang paint box were lacking of most colors, but there was still plenty of black, which was a manly color.  I smiled as I imagined his surprise, and the ashtray piled high with his stubbed-out Lucky Strikes.

       Today, mother would help me wrap it with left-over tissue, and hopefully some ribbon from her sacred, brightly decorated ribbon box, which she kept on the very top shelf of her closet, pushed way to the back and underneath a hat box–out of the reach of tiny exploring hands. It contained a wondrous rainbow of assorted, wound up and reverently placed strings and ribbons from past holiday gifts, gently pressed with a slightly cool iron to rid them from the worst of wrinkles.

       The Philco playing, my mother humming, the astringent odor filling the air from the cherries not yet sugared, and my brother Teddy away at summer camp for another week, which meant a short reprieve from his badgering: could life be more delicious?

       “Is it okay if I go outside for a while?”

       “Sure thing, Sunny. Just remember, we have some wrapping to do.”

       With an emphatic “yes ma’am,” I dragged my blanket out the back door, down the porch steps, and bare-footed my way into the yard where the early morning sun and tiny droplets of dew reflected on the uneven border of flowers like so many sparkly diamonds. With wonder, my eyes took in a smattering of rag-tag hollyhocks, scattered four-o’clock with their black seeds just begging to be gathered, and a few pitiful pansies which had sprung up uninvited from the previous year.

       A favorite pastime my mama and I shared was the private time when we would spread my scruffy blanket over the still moist grass and lying on our backs, would regale each other with make-believe stories about the cloud formations. After a while, the wool would become damp and smell just a little like the wet coat of my Irish setter ‘Girl’, after a summer shower. She had disappeared quite mysteriously a few weeks back while expecting her “who’s the daddy” puppies, as my papa would say.

       I lay there staring at the sun, counted slowly to fifteen–squeezed shut my eyes, and the image of the sun burned itself into the back of my head. The radio interrupted Glen Miller with the latest news of the war, the cupboard doors in the kitchen were opening and closing, and the fragrant aroma from the pie now in the oven, began to tickle my nostrils.

       Suddenly, I became aware of a commotion from inside the house and the Philco began blaring. The brightness of the sun still danced behind my tightly shut eyes, but on that day, I stopped believing in Santa Claus and discovered that human beings did indeed stop ‘being’; and in the next year of school, when I began spelling larger words, wasn’t it  curious that “smother” was “mother” with an “s”.

       ***                                                                   ***                                                                   ***

       Seventeen years later, the old Philco sits in my kitchen–its innards long since regurgitated into a trash bin; but now, the hollow of it is the keeper of secrets: the scarf, wound so tightly around my mother’s nose and throat, some letters found hidden in the ribbon box, and a bit of evidence I’ve recently uncovered that might shed light on her murder, still unsolved after all these years.

Filed Under: The Ribbon Box: Chapter 1

The Ribbon Box, Prologue

January 30, 2012 by Leave a Comment

       I am Sunshine Tucker.  That’s my given name.  I was born at home after a long, stormy and thunderous night of a most difficult delivery for my mother.  Breech birth, just as the dawn began to break.  My daddy looked out the window as the doctor was about to sign my birth certificate and  exclaimed “Thank God, there’s sunshine.”  Mistakenly, the doctor thought he was referring to me.

       I’m to be married in approximately six months–give or take some decisions and indecisions, questions and fears. That is why I’ve decided to set about writing all I can recall that may be important:  How our town came to be; my early memories; the foibles of the neighbors; disturbing things I’ve been told by family and friends, and gossip I have heard throughout the years.  If any of it makes sense when I am finished, it may help resolve what I feel in my heart I must do.

                             *     *     *

       In the late 1800’s, Jeremiah Pitts, a successful business man from New York, decided that it would be fortuitous to spend his latter years as a ‘gentleman farmer’.   The only farming he’d ever done consisted of watering his wife’s potted plants on their wrap-around veranda; however, he sold his profitable funeral and furniture business, pulled up stakes, packed up his wife and two sons and purchased approximately two and a half square miles in southern Ohio.

       After three unsucessful years of attempting to grow crops, he realized that if he wished to retain any of his wealth, he’d better leave the farming to the farmers.  Jeremiah developed the land, laid out the streets, parceled and sold lots, set up his sons in various business ventures, and named the town ‘Pittsville’.

       Within a short period of time, the town boasted:  Pitts Savings and Loan, Pitts Funeral Parlor, Pitts Grade School and the Pittsville Fire Department.  Later, as the town expanded, Pitts Department Store and the Pittsville Police Department were added.  As the town continued to flourish, the residents were overjoyed by the addition of the Pitts Movie Theatre, and Pittsville High School–the ‘Patriots’, whose colors were red, white and blue.  The motto, appropriately enough, was ‘Go Lady Liberty’.  Evidently you could take Jeremiah out of New York, but you couldn’t take New York out of Jeremiah.

       The Pitts’  family continued to prosper, and a third generation of Pitts boys arrived on the scene.  This generation was not as focused, dedicated or productive as the previous two.  Three of the five young men:  Jeremiah the Third, (Jerry T), Paul, (Paulie Boy), and Robert (Bobby), were regarded by the old-timers as ne’er-do-wells, by the middle-agers as wild and unproductive, and by the eligible young women–many of whom had lost their virginity to any of the three–as the “best husband potential in all of Pittsville.”

       The fourth son, Leonard, was a little slow, however the family saw to it that he was engaged in activities such as collecting tickets and selling popcorn at the movie theatre, keeping the Dalmatian fed and exercised at the fire station, and greeting customers at the bank.  He was large and cumbersome–disliked by some, tolerated by others, and liked by those understanding enough to look beyond his limitations.

       Bobby Pitts ran Pitts Auto Agency, but he knew little about the auto business other than taking his ‘flings’ out for a spin in the shiny new cars to ‘break them in’.  It was suggested that he was referring to the girls–not the autos.

       The youngest of the sons was considered wholesome and upstanding–Theodore Alan Pitts, (Tap).  Pat Tucker, my daddy, and Tap were best friends and it was Tap who saw to it that Bobby hired my father at Pitts Auto Agency in 1932, the year my older brother was born.  My daddy named him after his best friend, and he was given the nickname ‘Teddy’.  Four years later, I arrived exactly nine months and six hours from the night my mama and daddy kicked up their heels at Tim’s–the local tavern, and then literally, at home.  Teddy was none too pleased, but my parents informed him that I was there for the long haul.

Filed Under: The Ribbon Box: Prologue

Ruby and Jesse

January 30, 2012 by Leave a Comment

           They met as adolescents. Ruby’s family moved next door to Jesse’s on an idyllic Saturday afternoon in the summer of ’38. It became apparent immediately that they were attracted to each other. The families thought it was sweet that Jesse, although large for his age, was so caring of Ruby.  By the time they were teenagers Jesse had grown big and strong, while Ruby remained petite and dainty. Ruby was smitten by Jesse’s athletic skills and his “take-charge” attitude, and Jesse was just downright dopey over Ruby’s sweet nature, her innocence, and her glowing red hair.

           Other than each family’s separate vacations and holiday trips, Ruby and Jesse were seldom apart and it was only natural that the romance would become physical. Ruby submitted to an afternoon of passionate sex. Once–and once only—but the timing couldn’t have been more perfect, nor more dreadful.

          Later, noticing that Ruby had begun gaining weight, an appointment was made with Dr. Morgan who confirmed she was pregnant. They lashed out at poor Jesse who was told he would never again be welcome in their home, nor on their property, and he was cast-out forthwith. A Pariah!

          Ruby endured her pregnancy alone. Each time Jesse made an attempt to see her, he was shunned and turned away. His family was difficult as well, for the day Ruby’s pregnancy was discovered, the former good neighbors ceased speaking to one another.

          Jesse must have sensed that her due date was near, for he began to hover near their home endlessly, only to have the door opened and epithets hurled at him from all members of the family until he slunk away pitying himself and questioning “how could they not know the depth of my love?”

          On a moonlit, star dazzled evening, Jesse noticed a car ease up in front of Ruby’s house, and an important-looking man dressed in a dark suit embellished with a bright red bow-tie emerged, carrying a battered black bag. Walking up the front steps he rang the doorbell. They hurried him in, as Jesse rushed over only to have the door once again flung shut. He refused to leave and patiently sat on their porch for hours, head lowered, all the while listening to Ruby’s moans from within.

          Dr. Morgan explained to the family in hushed tones: “I may as well tell you quite frankly–because Ruby is small, her delivery is going to be extremely difficult. I only wish I had better news for you, but I think you should be prepared for the worst.”

          Later, the door opened and surprisingly, Jesse was allowed to enter. There was Ruby lying there, motionless. Jesse inched closer, never taking his eyes off her. When realization set in, he bolted for the door and ran wild over the grassy lawn in grief–never noticing the headlights of the car headed toward him.

          Occasionally, the embittered find compassion; the maligned are vindicated; for in the end, Ruby and Jesse were buried together. The only acknowledgement of their love?  On a cloud-truffled morn, upon the standard atop the grave, their entwined dog collars swayed gently in the breeze.

                                                                                                                        Jan Chapman

                                                                                                                        November, 2010

Filed Under: Stories

Chicken Ala King

January 30, 2012 by Leave a Comment

Back in the 1930’s my mother belonged to a very prestigious bridge club.  That is to say, all the women would gussy up for the Friday night-once a month- event, with their hair fashioned in the latest ‘do’s’, and their faces painted with the latest purchases of make-up.  Perched  atop of the coif  sat a perky and feathered hat with each owner trying her best to outdo the other.

My mother was the only one of the eight who was not a career woman but she tried her best to show off her creative bent to the others.  She was also the only one who had children.  The others were either single, married, without children, or divorced.

When it was my mother’s turn to have ‘club’, the week was spent scrubbing, cleaning, mopping; to the extent that even the tops of the doors were dusted.  Many hours were devoted to making sure that the inside of the oven and refrigerator both were in pristine condition.  I don’t recall the other seven making military rounds to inspect the cleanliness of our house, but like the Boy Scouts, I guess she thought it best to “Be Prepared.”

The tattered Better Homes and Garden cookbook would be brought out and she would ‘tweak’ it’s recipe for Chicken Ala King.  This was her pride and joy, and I don’t recall her ever serving anything else for bridgeclub.  My daddy, brother and I knew to keep out of the way during these harried days, and the evening of their arrival, after I was allowed to say hello to them (and marvel in their splendor.) I would be taken to the Nixon theater by my father.  It was a short walk down to the end of our very own street, and each Friday night there would be a Boston Blackie movie (or so it seemed.)  I was in love with Boston Blackie.

By the time we arrived back home, the fanciful women would have departed, the Noritake dishes washed, dried and out of sight.  The only vestige that there had been visitors was the smoke, still layered in the air, mingling with eight different fragrances of stale perfume.  The ashtrays were piled high with cigarette butts, which my mother left on the kitchen sink–refusing to toss them until morning, for fear of fire.

This is her doctored up recipe for Chicken Ala King:

3 or 4 cups bite-sized pieces of cooked chicken breasts, 1/4 cup each red, yellow, green and orange peppers in a small dice, 1/3 cup minced mild onion or shallots,2 tbls.butter,1 tbls. lemon juice, 2 tbls. flour, 3 egg yolks,2 cups half and half , 2 T dry sherry, 1/4 cup butter, melted, 1 cup frozen peas, 1 cup fresh mushrooms, salt and pepper to taste and a pinch or two of cayene pepper.

In a saucepan, sweat the peppers and onions in the 2T of butter.  Blend in the flour.  Stir in the half and half—stirring constantly until thick and bubbly.  Add sherry and lemon juice.  Blend the 1/4 cup butter with the 3 egg yolks and stir into the mixture.  It can be refrigerated at this point until ready to serve.

To serve:

Warm the mixture over the stove, stirring constantly.

Saute the mushroms in a small amount of butter and add them, the peas and the chicken to the warmed mixture.  Adjust the seasonings and add more sherry if desired.  Today, I’d serve this over Pepperidge Farm Puff pastry shells.  Back then, my mother would serve it over her home-made southern biscuits.

 

 

Filed Under: Poultry

Ruination

January 29, 2012 by Leave a Comment

 

A slash of wrist

A knotted twist

Bottle of booze–a plastic bag

Douse of chloroform on a rag

An ocean plunged

A life expunged

Overdose for stimulation

There is always immolation

Car exhaust

Die from frost

Chambered bullet for Roulette

Do I have one last regret?

I will live another day–

Why you say?

Damn rope broke

Matches-no smoke

Useless blade

Lifeguard saved

Drugs outdated

Alcohol sated

Temperature rose

Nothing froze

Bought a Glock

Wouldn’t cock

Hole in bag

Lost the rag

Tail pipe fell

And what the hell–

                                       Where does one buy chloroform?

                                                                                                                 Jan Chapman

                                                                                                                 March, 2010

Filed Under: Poetry

An Inclement Observation

January 28, 2012 by 2 Comments

            Awakening before the newspaper arrives with the daily crossword puzzle, before

the streetlights dim, before the coffee maker embarks upon its automatic perk, I mark

time. The clock ticks. There is no one lying next to me. There is no arm flung across my

breast, nor is there a leg slung across my thigh. I am alone. It is my own breathing I hear.

Only my heart beats–no other.

          I am an early riser–always have been. It’s not unusual to have my first cup of

coffee before five a.m. On this morning, I carry a cuppa out to the lanai. Lovely to see the

world awaken, but today is cold and rainy. A plop, plop of drops fall in a steady cadence

onto the concrete overhang of the lanai. Shivering, I wrap my palms around the steaming

mug to warm them. The wind howls in alternate directions. I feel the chilled dampness

through my terry robe; nevertheless I’m somehow comforted by its coziness.

          This is often a time of quiet reflection. Looking down the boulevard to the south, I

would see street lights gradually disappear as the sky becomes lighter. No cars, then a

few, and suddenly we’re graced with the motorized march of the employed. The lights

pop off one by one like stars vanishing at dawn’s earliest light. The heavens gift me with

a slow motion explosion of gray, teal, pink, mauve. Not today. It’s dank, dismal,

bordering on grim.

          From the twelfth floor, I glance to the boulevard below and notice street lamps lit

beyond their normal expiration. Today the cars creep–their wipers executing a slow

dance to a bored, syncopated rhythm, and the occupants within, no doubt bored as well;

drumming impatient fingers against their steering wheels–unless they’re tuned to Howard

Stern, texting, or schmoozing on their cells.

          Looking toward the Gulf, there are no boats to be seen, no horizon to gauge the

distance. Normally, the beach would be an ongoing parade of walkers, runners, shell-

gatherers, and lovers still in their morning afterglow. No one it seems, has the fortitude

to venture out on an un-Florida-like morning such as this. Not even my feathered pelican

friends who acknowledge me often with their aerodynamic salute as they fly directly

toward my screen in a drill-like military formation, only to veer to the right at the last

possible moment.

          Today, the Gulf is a vast expanse of dreary, gunmetal gray. No crashing waves, just

a steady succession of rolling undulations, each ending in a frothiness, slathering its icing

against the shore–scrabbling at the sand with long dribbling fingers, then dragging a

universe of particles back into its wetness.

          Suddenly, I catch sight–barely, of a lone figure. That of a man struggling with

effort against the wind, hunkered from the drizzle, tugging his jacket altogether with

pant legs rolled up to the knees, and wading mid-calf in the frigid water. I watch him

trudge slowly, painstakingly in the knee-high swells, making a gigantic effort to remain

upright. As he passes, I notice the drab clothing, albeit atop his head, a striped stocking

cap in garish colors. Strange. Incongruous. Why, I ask myself is he out in such weather?

I want desperately to shout “For God’s sake–what are you thinking?” I remain silent.

Then a thought…perhaps this is for ‘God’s sake’.

          Head bent, he plods on, becoming small, smaller, until merely an exclamation point

in the distant inky gloom…

                                                                                                                               Jan Chapman

                                                                                                                               January, 2012

Filed Under: Stories

BABY

January 27, 2012 by Leave a Comment

Lucy was an old maid. Lucy had been abandoned at the altar many years before–left only with abject humiliation and a wilting bouquet. Lucy hated all men! She especially hated her brother-in-law, Ralph–but in that case, the feelings were mutual. She thought of him as a “boorish member of that vile gender,” and Ralph told Lucy’s sister, Alice: “If I ever meet the guy who left your sister at the altar, I’ll buy him a beer and pin a medal on him.”

She did have one love in her life, however: Baby was her name, and like Lucy, she was a virgin. Baby was a chow-chow. She was blessed with russet-colored long hair, pointy teeth, black beady eyes and tiny paws with perfectly manicured nails. Lucy and Baby were inseparable.

“Come, Baby–time for your walk.” A jiggle of the leash from Lucy, and Baby would prance around the linoleum floor, toenails clicking and clacking, head held high, black tongue flopping to one side.  “What shall we have for dinner tonight, Baby?” Baby would respond by patiently sitting at attention, staring with piercing eyes as Lucy placed three assorted cans of dog food in front of her. Lucy patted the first can. Silence. Lucy tapped the second can. Silence. Lucy slapped the third can. Baby would bark three times–no more, no less.

“Come to mama, Baby–time for beddy-bye.” Lucy would take the steps to the second-floor bedroom with Baby playfully nipping at her heels. When cold-creamed and bonneted Lucy snuggled under the covers, Baby would spring up and nestle at Lucy’s feet for the night. Lucy’s last wakeful moments before slumber were spent giving thanks that Baby had never been sullied by a male dog.

Lucy answered the phone. “This is Peggy Braddock, remember me? I know you are enjoying retirement, Lucy, however if you’re interested, there is a teachers’ convention in Omaha in a month. I’m planning to attend, and thought perhaps you might like to join me and visit with some of our old cronies. We could take the Greyhound bus, and we’d only be gone for three days.” With little hesitation, Lucy said “yes.”

Lucy called Alice, who lived nearby and asked if she would mind Baby-sitting for three days. “Of course, I’d love to,” said her sister, “just make sure you bring her special dog food,” shushing her husband who was objecting violently in the background.

After she hung up the phone, Ralph stomped around the room: “For Christ’s sake, Alice–you know how much I hate that dog, and your sister is a big pain in the butt! Baby the Pure, Baby the Innocent, Baby the Virgin. Oh, crap!”

The morning of her trip to Omaha arrived. Lucy, lugging her suitcase from the bedroom, was preceded down the stairs by Baby, who unfortunately was emitting little droplets of blood on the carpeting. “Oh, Lord Almighty,” cried Lucy. “What do I do now? I’ve paid for the bus ticket, and Peggy is counting on me. I can’t back out. What a time for this to be happening. Baby–how could you?”

Later, arriving at Alice and Ralph’s house, Lucy cautioned her “Alice–Baby has come into heat, and YOU MUST WATCH HER EVERY MINUTE. I don’t want some bastard pooch taking advantage of my innocent baby!” Her sister assured her that Baby’s welfare would take importance over everything else, and she had nothing to worry about. Lucy hugged and gushed over Baby for a full five minutes, tied a pink ribbon around her neck, then gave Alice a quick peck on the cheek and off she went.

Baby disdainfully sniffed the floor, and haughtily wandered from room to room as Alice sorted dirty clothing into separate baskets, for this was laundry day. Baby followed her to the basement where Alice  hooked up the hose to the wringer-washer and began to run water for the batch of whites. Baby watched her every move. Alice went up the steps to the first landing, opened the side door, and proceeded to the back yard with clothesline and a basketful of clothespins. After stringing the line, she went down to the basement where the whites had finished washing. She put them through the wringer, tossed in the batch of medium colors, and carried the basket of clean laundry up the steps and out the back.

There, in the middle of the yard, between the apple tree and the picnic table was Baby, and directly behind her was a dog twice her size and thrice as ugly. Alice dropped the clothes basket and began pelting the beast with every clothespin she could grab, followed by the clothespin basket itself. Neither dog seemed to notice, and truth be told, Baby seemed not in the least to mind her unfortunate circumstance! Alice screamed, she frantically waved, she grabbed a rake, she stumbled, and then she sat down, put her head in her lap and cried.

After composing herself, she dashed to the house, grabbed the phone and called her husband. “Jesus, Ralph–I don’t care what you’re doing, I don’t even care if you lose your job–just get home as fast as you can. Baby’s in heat and somehow she got out and she’s been taken advantage of by that big gray hound from Woodward avenue.”

Ralph dropped everything, sped all the way across town with utter disregard for red lights and stop signs, and made it home in a record twenty minutes. In the meantime, a bedraggled Baby limped to the side door and scratched to be let in. Ralph pulled into the driveway, ran to the house, flung open the door, screaming every epithet used by mankind, and grabbed Baby by the collar.

“Alice, stop your sniveling and follow me,” he ordered, running down the basement steps, two at a time with Baby in tow. “I’m going to unhook the hose from the washing machine, and when I say ‘NOW’, I want you to turn the water on–FULL BLAST.” With that, he shoved the hose up Baby and yelled “NOW”! Alice turned the spigot on with all her might–full throttle–and when she did, Baby shot across the entire length of the basement like a circus clown blown out of a cannon!

Things quieted down considerably after that, and the next two days were spent rather peaceably: for the duration of her visit, Baby was kept tethered to the bathroom door, giving her ample time to reflect upon her scandalous behavior.

Alice and Ralph kept their little secret, other than a sly ‘wink-wink’ now and then when Baby was referred to as a ‘virgin’.  Nor would Lucy ever discover that while she had been riding the Greyhound, the gray hound, alas, had been riding Baby!

Jan Chapman

2010

Filed Under: Stories

Ralphie

January 27, 2012 by 1 Comment

      Ralphie was a nut case. Everyone said so.

     Agitated for a few months, his affliction reared its ugly head in earnest the morning of his fiftieth birthday. He awoke, wished himself a happy birthday, put on his bifocals, reached for the phone and dialed up a swimming pool salesman. The eager gent pulled into the graveled driveway complete with clipboard and brochures stacked on the seat beside him. Ralphie greeted him, then guided him to the back yard, explaining the configuration he’d designed for the pool, questioning the comparative cost of using Mexican or Italian tile, and elaborating on the landscaping he wished to surround it: a gaudy display of flowers and shrubs, or perhaps a modest stand of firs for privacy.

     Ralphie, a self-described “number-crunching, bean-counting, pencil-pushing accountant” at Myriad Industries, lived with his wife in a small five room bungalow. Their ‘sprawling back yard’ consisted of an eight by eight patio upon which were placed two aluminum folding chairs, a round redwood table, a dying Poinsettia struggling to survive since December; and further out, six feet of grass which took Ralphie approximately two and a half minutes to mow. Deflated, the salesman left.

     On his fifty-first birthday, Ralphie awoke, wished himself a happy birthday, stirred four tablespoons of sugar into his espresso, and reached for the phone. He called a landscaper and ordered a delivery of fifty rose bushes. Ralphie and his wife still lived at the same address, their ‘grassy meadow’ had never expanded, nor were they gardeners. His wife, faced with the task of explaining this dilemma to the nursery, begged them to take back forty-nine of the fifty. One Peace rose was planted in the empty pot vacated by the deceased Poinsettia.

     On his fifty-second birthday, Ralphie awoke, wished himself a happy birthday, drove to Bowling and Billiards, and signed up for five bowling leagues. He purchased two pairs of bowling shoes, size nine and a half–one pair in blue, the other a light tan; and three bowling balls in a variety of colors–a patriotic red white and blue, another, a root-beer shade of brown, and a third, a conservative black. The finger holes were ground to his specifications. Ralphie had never bowled.

     Early that same year, Ralphie began hiding behind their living-room drapery to prevent President Eisenhower from spying on him as the imaginary motorcade drove by their house. Each afternoon, before leaving work, he opened the trunk of his car to check that none of his co-workers had placed office supplies there. Occasionally he carried on conversations with himself, both at the office and at home.

     Late one evening, he swallowed five sleeping pills, washing them down with a bottle of Budweiser. His wife awoke to find a note pinned to her pillow which merely read: “Goodbye”. She rushed him to Emergency; the long and short of it–Ralphie was rewarded with the best night’s sleep he’d had in years.

     Back home, it wasn’t long before he tried his luck again–this time with a shot gun. The barrel, too long to be positioned properly, resulted in an explosion which missed the intended target completely, but did manage to annihilate his wife’s potted fern.

     Secretly, his wife scheduled an appointment with Dr. Morgan, a psychiatrist, impressing upon him the increased seriousness of the situation, and pleaded with him to do something–anything! Ralphie was admitted to General Hospital’s Psych Ward for observation and evaluation. The first night there, he tried to hang himself with the frayed tie-back on the curtain in his room–only to have it shred and break. After confinement of a few weeks spent weaving potholders, fashioning ashtrays and juggling medications, he was released by Dr. Morgan.

     On the advice of the doctor and the Psychiatric staff, Ralphie’s company placed him on permanent medical disability and he was retired from Myriad at full salary, plus medical benefits. Shortly thereafter, during a prescribed hospital procedure, the doctors discovered that his carotid arteries were clogged with plaque and needed to be reamed. The procedure was successful–miraculously so. Ralphie was no longer psychotic. Seemingly, he became a normal, functioning member of society.

     Ralphie’s fifty-third birthday arrived. Once again bestowing upon himself best wishes, he reached for his bifocals, scrabbled for pen and paper, and wrote his former employer the following letter:

          “Dear Mr. Stuyevescent:

           I am no longer mentally impaired. I would feel guilty if you continued sending my monthly disability checks. This is my authorization to cease mailing them.

           Yours Truly,

           Ralph Maybock”

     After reading the letter, Mr. Stuyevescent chucked it into the wastebasket, commenting to his secretary: “This guy has GOT to be crazy! No SANE person would ever stop their checks from coming.”

     Ralphie died of natural causes at age ninety-five, outliving his long-suffering wife by thirty-nine years. When the will was probated, it was discovered that he had amassed a fortune of over two million dollars. For forty-two years to be exact, a smiling and ebullient Ralphie strutted to his mailbox to retrieve, cash, and wisely invest his generous monthly stipend.

     Yes, Ralphie was a nut case. Everyone said so!

 

                                                                                                         Jan Chapman

                                                                                                         March, 2010

Filed Under: Stories
« Previous Page