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

            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

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

      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