Memory's Keeper

By Bettyann Moore

Libby read the same paragraph three times before she realized that George’s snoring was interfering with her concentration. She knew, though, that trying to slip out of bed and move into the living room would be impossible. He was a notoriously light sleeper. He could sleep anywhere, it was true, but at the smallest sound, he’d jolt awake, have a devil of a time falling back to sleep and be crabby all day. It wasn’t worth it.

He was drooling again. A long string of saliva hung from the corner of his mouth and pooled on the pillow. Libby sighed, quietly. George had ruined numerous pillows with his drooling until she doubled up on the pillow protectors, and added two old pillowcases beneath the good one on top. It added to her wash load – she bleached them like crazy, but they were a lot easier to clean than a pillow.

Libby lowered her book – a romance – to her chest. George barely tolerated her choice of reading materials. One time, he’d read a few pages of one of her SensuousLove paperbacks, snorted and threw it across the room.

“Jesus, Lib,” he’d said, “that crap isn’t even candy for the brain, it’s more like Sweet ‘n’ Low for the brain.” He laughed at his little simile. Since then, Libby kept her stash of books hidden and read only biographies when he was awake. George approved of biographies, and history, anything historic was okay by him … well, except for historical romances.

In truth, Libby herself used to scoff at any kind of romance novel, until she turned 50, that is. It was like her brain couldn’t handle anything deeper, more pithy. It didn’t help that George had turned into his father: autocratic, unromantic and sometimes, downright mean. It was all about escape for Libby.

She closed the book quietly, reached down and slid it beneath the bed with all the others. She pressed the silent remote that would douse the bedside lamp, curled up on her side, away from the snoring, drooling George, and tried to sleep. Her thoughts kept turning to Memory’s Keeper, the book she’d slid under the bed. The heroine’s love interest, Lars, reminded her so much of Jake, her One True Love from high school. He was romantic, sensual, kind, loving, adventurous … the list was endless. As she’d done for the last ten years, Libby fell asleep fantasizing What If …

It wasn’t unusual for Libby to wake up disoriented, but unless she was sick, she never woke up late. The smell of coffee added to her confusion. George never made coffee. She wasn’t sure if he even knew where the coffee pot was. If he had to go searching and make it himself … oh, he’d be crabby for sure. Libby groggily reached for her robe at the end of the bed. All she found, though, was a short, silky robe, not her heavy brown fleece. Is George playing some weird game? She wondered. She didn’t have time to guess; George was waiting. She pulled on the slippery thing, which felt marvelous against her skin, and headed to the bathroom.

Only it wasn’t there. There were just two doors in the bedroom. The bathroom door on the left and the door to the hallway on the right. Libby stood there for several long seconds, her head swiveling back and forth, back and forth like she was at a tennis match. The doors had been switched.

“Pull yourself together, Libby,” she said aloud. “You’re just a little more confused than usual is all.”

Adding to the confusion was the fact that the bathroom was totally different. An elegant single faucet gleamed over a vessel sink. Where was that leaky, lime-encrusted double tap that George kept promising to fix? And what was this? Two toilets? No, one was odd-looking … it was a bidet! Libby had never actually seen a bidet, but she’d heard of them. She shook her head like a dog shaking off water, but the bidet remained. Nevertheless, she had to go, badly, so she ignored the sink and the strange porcelain fixture and eased herself onto the toilet.

Immediately, she stood up again. The seat was warm! It was like there was a little heater in it. She sat down again. It felt soothing, but it sure made her have to go even more. When she reached for the toilet paper and it wasn’t in the same place, Libby just sighed. Then her nose twitched. Was that bacon she smelled? Unless it came in a microwavable package, George never cooked anything. Ever. Libby was truly alarmed now. She hurriedly washed her hands and headed for the stairs.

Only there weren’t any. The hallway led to a vast living room, which opened into a dining area flanked by a marble-topped island, followed by the kitchen. Libby’s mind registered that while the layout of the house was completely different, there were still recognizable personal items. Her great-aunt’s Tiffany lamp, her most precious treasure, graced the living room, but it sat atop a table she’d never laid eyes on. The painting that she’d bought from a starving artist while in college was hanging up, but it hung over a fireplace she knew she didn’t have. If this was a prank it was a darn elaborate one.

The clatter of pans drew her attention. Ah, at least there was her husband, who had his back to her as he took something from the stove. He was whistling. George didn’t whistle. He thought it gauche.

Libby stood uncertainly next to the dining room table, which had been set beautifully with delicate china and fresh-cut flowers artfully arranged in a crystal vase. Whoever really lived here, Libby thought, had wonderful taste and an eye for the sensual.

“Darling! There you are! I was just coming in to wake you.”

The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t George’s. The man carrying a silver carafe to the table most definitely wasn’t George. Libby’s heart lurched in her chest. It was Jake. Not the 18-year-old Jake she remembered, but Jake nevertheless – grown up, handsome, fit and smiling that sexy half-smile she remembered so well. He was smiling at her.

“Sit, sit,” he said, setting down the carafe. “Breakfast is all ready.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. Frozen to the spot, Libby didn’t react one way or the other to the kiss. Jake pulled out her chair for her (another thing George would never do), then poured her a cup of hot black coffee. Libby sank gratefully into the chair and reached for the coffee; maybe it would help clear her head.

Jake hustled back to the kitchen and returned with a clear glass bowl of colorful melon balls and a perfectly arranged plate of sunny-side up eggs, bacon and toast. He set it down before her with a flourish. There was just one plate.

Libby cleared her throat. “Uh, aren’t you eating?” she asked. She was amazed at her calm. What she wanted to ask is “What the hell is going on here?”

“No, silly,” Jake said, removing his chef’s apron. He was wearing a light green silk shirt, a Jerry Garcia patterned tie and beautifully pressed black slacks. And suspenders. Libby loved men in suspenders. “I have that meeting with Bob Kinder and the judge, remember?” he said. No, of course she didn’t. “After today our dream of a charity for the homeless will be realized. HomePlace will finally be born!”

Jake always had a soft heart. George’s idea of charity was to drag a quarter out of his pocket and drop it into the red kettle at Christmas. Once.

“How wonderful for you, Jake,” Libby managed.

“How wonderful for us!” he said, leaning down to hug her once again. “You laid all the groundwork and held all those fundraisers … I can’t wait for the celebration on Saturday and my girl can finally get the acknowledgment she deserves!”

“Saturday?” Libby said. “Uh, this is going to sound crazy, but what’s today?”

“It’s Tuesday, my love,” Jake said, pulling on his suit coat. “Don’t forget the rose delivery to Rosie’s,” he added.

“Roses. Rosie’s …?” Libby didn’t know any Rosie, well, except Rosie Hansen from high school, her former best friend and, as it happens, the woman Jake had taken up with after her. It certainly couldn’t be thatRosie. She hadn’t thought of her in years.

Jake sighed, but with a smile on his face. He pulled a thick leather book from the top of the island and set it near her left hand.

“Looks like you’ll need your bible today, old girl,” he said affectionately. He kissed the top of her head and went to the door. “I have to run, but I’ll be back for lunch as usual,” he said. Then he winked, or at least Libby thought he did.

What did that mean?She wondered. What does any of it mean? Absently, Libby picked at the meal before her while she thumbed through the book. It was part journal, part calendar, part scheduler. It was chock full of reminders, hand-drawn maps, snippets of conversations, recipes … all written in Libby’s own hand. How could that be? She found a reference for Tuesday. TUESDAY, it declared in all caps, underlined. Ten dozen roses to Rosie’s … all colors … Johnson wedding … by 10 am.!

Ten dozen roses? Where was Libby supposed to get ten dozen roses? And by 10 am.? Who gets married on a Tuesday anyway? Where and what was Rosie’s? She flipped through the book some more … ah, there it was. She’d drawn a little map of the place, which was, apparently, a flower shop. It was on the corner of Elm and Smithfield … Elm and Smithfield … Elm and Smithfield … Libby couldn’t remember any street named Smithfield. Was it even in town? Libby’s heart seemed to fall into her stomach. Was she even in town? She could be anywhere. She looked around her. Hell, she was anywhere.

She pushed away her half-finished plate, clutched the book to her chest and went to the large bay window. Her heart sank again. She recognized nothing. There didn’t seem to be any houses nearby, just fields and trees. Peaking out from the back corner of the house, though, Libby saw some sort of building. A neighbor? She decided to go see for herself. Maybe they could help her.

Libby took a quick shower, then hesitated in front of a strange dresser. Would her clothes be in there? And, if so, would she recognize them? She pulled open the top drawer. She didn’t recognize any of the underthings, but they were the right size anyway. Unlike her utilitarian cotton bras and underwear, though, they were all made of silky fabric in an array of colors, even black and red. Libby knew she was blushing when she pulled them on, but they sure felt good. In the closet she found hanger upon hanger of slinky, form-fitting, low-cut dresses, with shoes to match. “Slutty,” George would decree. Libby went back to the dresser and found a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. They were more her style.

She went out the same door that Jake had left from, proud of herself for making sure it wouldn’t automatically lock behind her. If she had keys to anything, she sure didn’t know where they would be. Maybe she’d find a clue to that in her little black book.

The door led to the garage; a motion-detection light snapped on as she entered. A sweet black Jeep sat next to a vacant space, presumably where Jake’s vehicle had been parked. Libby searched for the door opener, found it, then pressed ‘open.” She gasped. She couldn’t see the end of the driveway; it was that long. It was lined with ancient willow trees, interspersed with lilac bushes. It was gorgeous. More to shovel, prune and keep up, George would grump.

Following a field stone walkway around the house, Libby found the building she’d seen out the window. It was a greenhouse and a huge one at that. Over the door was a quaint, handmade sign that read: Libby’s Lair.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed. She pushed open the door and was immediately enveloped by warm, moist air and the heady smell of hundreds upon hundreds of rose bushes in full bloom. It took her back to her college days when she had worked summers at the Green’s Greenhouse, the best summers of her life. Working there had prompted her to change her major from chemistry to botany, but it was her dream to open her own greenhouse where she would create new and exotic species.

Then she met George, who was allergic to almost all plants.

Libby walked down the hothouse’s wide aisles, drinking in the smells and colors. A huge clock at the end of the building read 8 o’clock and she remembered she was supposed to deliver roses by 10. A pull-cart, loaded with crates filled with large, cone-shaped holders looked as if it was ready to be filled. Libby found elbow-length rubber gloves, a pair of shears and thorn snips. It was like she’d never left the Greens’. She worked happily, choosing only the best blooms. Before long, she had the 10 dozen roses she needed, then wondered, now what?

The cart wasn’t heavy or difficult to pull, so Libby pulled it around the house and to the garage. She peered into the back of the Jeep, which looked as if it had transported flowers before; its cargo space was strewn with dry leaves and petals. She pulled open the hatch and loaded the crates. Then she went in search of keys. She wished she had Jake’s phone number, then realized that she probably did.

Sure enough, there it was in the front of the black book. There was an office number and a cell number. When she finally located a phone, near the coffee pot on the counter, she dialed the cell number, hoping she wouldn’t interrupt something. George refused to take any calls from her while he was working.

“Hi Sweetie,” Jake said by way of greeting. “I was just thinking about you.”

Libby’s stomach did a little flip-flop. “Hi, Jake, um, I seem to have misplaced my keys. Have you seen them?”

“Well, if they’re not in the key box by the door, there’s always the spare set in the blue vase,” Jake said.

Libby saw a rustic square wooden box, decorated with roses mounted next to the door. She pulled on its little knob and found all the keys she could possibly want.

“They were in the box all along,” she told Jake sheepishly.

He chuckled. “I’m glad you called,” he said, “I just had a text from Jacob Jr.; he and Alisha can make it on Saturday after all. Isn’t that great?”

Libby froze. Jacob Junior? They had a son? She and George were childless. This was the biggest shock so far and the most incredible.

“Honey,” Jake said, “are you there?”

“Sorry, Jake,” Libby managed, “the phone slipped off my ear. That’s great news! It’ll be wonderful to see him and, uh, Alisha.”

“And Jacob the Third, of course,” Jake said.

A grandson? She had a grandson? Libby’s heart swelled.

“Of course!” she cried. “Saturday can’t come soon enough.”

“Agreed,” Jake said. “Look, I have to go, but I’ll see you for lunch. You heading out to Rosie’s?”

“Yes, yes, I just loaded the Jeep and I’m on my way out the door.” Libby was proud of how normal she sounded, even if she had no clue where she was or where she was going.

“You might want to use the GPS,” Jake said, as if reading her mind. “There’s a ton of construction and detours that you’ll want to avoid. Frankville just keeps on growing.”

Libby beamed. Jake had just given her two vital bits of information. One: there was a GPS. And, two: They lived in the town they both grew up in.

“Good idea, JJ,” she said. The ‘JJ’ just popped out; it was what she’d always called him when they were dating. Jacob John, JJ for short.

When she hung up the phone, Libby felt more confident than she had all morning. True, she felt she was living in the middle of a Twilight Zone episode, but there was Jake. And flowers. A son and a grandson. It was the life she always dreamed of living. The thought paralyzed her for a second.

“I hope I never wake up,” she said aloud.

The trip to the flower shop was relatively easy, though Libby couldn’t help gawking at all the changes her old home town had gone through. When she pulled up in front of Rosie’s she remembered the building well; it used to be the Night Owl, the high school hang-out. She’d consumed many vanilla shakes and chili dogs there. Whoever this Rosie was, she’d done a nice job of renovating the old place. 

“Libby, yay!” a woman’s voice called out as Libby opened the Jeep’s hatch. “You’re just in time.”

The woman reached for a crate and Libby realized that this was, indeed, her ex-best friend Rose Hansen. Were they friends again?

“You never let me down,” Rosie said, hefting a crate. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“What are friends for?” Libby asked, taking a chance.

Rosie set down the crate and gave Libby a hug, the kind of hug only friends can give. It felt good to hug back.

“Let’s get these in the cooler and then have a cup of coffee,” Rosie said. “I just made a fresh pot of that Kona blend you like so much.”

Like its owner, the shop was eclectic, warm and gorgeous. Libby tried not to ogle; presumably she’d been there many times. While Rosie fussed with the coffee, Libby sat at a cafe table. Two cats took turns winding around her legs. Rosie always loved cats.

“So,” Rosie said, bringing a tray to the table, “Saturday’s the big day, huh?”

“Right.” With nothing more to say about the party since she’d only heard about it that morning, Libby said the only thing she could think of. “Looks like Jacob and Alisha will be there, after all.”

“Wonderful!” Rosie said. “And that incredible grandson … oh, I’m so envious.”

Libby didn’t dare say something stupid like, ‘your turn will come’. For all she knew Rosie wasn’t married or was gay. Interacting wasn’t easy. Maybe, she thought, she should just tell her what was going on. A best friend would understand, wouldn’t they?

“Seriously, though,” Rosie went on. “I don’t think I ever told you how crazy jealous I am about your life! A job – hell, a calling – that you adore, a kid who thinks the world of you, that brilliant grandson, and then there’s Jake. Forty years married and he still comes home for a little ‘afternoon delight’.”

Libby blushed. So that’s what Jake’s wink meant.

“But,” Libby said, “what if it’s all not real?” Rosie cocked her head. “I mean, what if it’s all a dream and I’ll wake up and all of this is gone? Poof!”

Just then the bell over the door tinkled.

“Crap,” Rosie whispered. “Time to get back to work and I do have to arrange those amazing roses of yours.” She stood up and patted Libby’s hand. “Don’t worry, kid, it’s all real enough. You better scoot. That man of yours will be home soon.” She gave Libby a wink and a kiss and went to help her customer.

Back at home – and that’s how she thought of it already – Libby waited with nervous anticipation for Jake’s arrival. Should she have lunch ready? What does he like to eat? Or should she wait in bed in a peignoir? Nude?

“Oh, my, this is all so new to me!” Libby cried. She and George had mutually given up sex; they didn’t talk about it, it just happened. Frankly, he’d never been that interested in it anyway.

Libby sat on the edge of the bed, fretting. Maybe casual was best. Rosie said they’d been doing this for 40 years, so casual was probably the answer. Just for a lark, she dropped to her knees and looked beneath the bed. Sure enough, some things don’t change: she still kept a stash of books there. Strange, though, that Memory’s Keeper was one of them. She stacked two pillows and lay down to have a good read. Now, where was she …?

The voices seemed to come from far away. She recognized one, she thought. Jake? George? The other sounded like a young man.

“It’s not uncommon,” the other voice said, “though I know that doesn’t help much to hear.”

“No, no it doesn’t,” said Jake/George. “I assume it’s only going to get worse.”

“Worse for you, for certain, but maybe in some small way, it’s actually better for her.”

“Better? How could that be?”

“Think of it as a coping mechanism the brain has set up. Early onset Alzheimer’s can be much more devastating to the patient than it is to someone older. They’re relatively young, in good health, then suddenly it’s as if everything good has been taken away.”

Poor dear, whoever they are, Libby thought. What a horrible thing to deal with.Her mind drifted. It was near impossible to read. She lowered the book to her chest and waited.

Trading Up

By Bettyann Moore

This was how it was supposed to go:

To Richard, it would be like any other Friday evening. He would come home from a long day at the office doing whatever it was that he did there, and JoAnne would have martinis waiting. She, of course, would be dressed to the nines; she always was. They would chit chat a bit while they drank one or two cocktails, then Richard would go in to shower. Ava, their housekeeper (JoAnne hated the word “maid”) would have Richard’s clothing laid out for him, though JoAnne had picked them out, choosing something a tad less casual than usual. Richard wouldn’t notice. 

While he puttered around in the bathroom – Richard always took his time, and there were certain functions he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, accomplish in the office restroom, even though he had his own – JoAnne would call the Winstons to see how the preparations were going and whether the guests had arrived. The Winstons had two housekeepers, so JoAnne was reasonably certain all would be well on that front.

After he was freshly shaved and showered, Richard would then take over at the bar and make the two of them his special concoction that he had dubbed “Dick’s Six” as it contained six different types of alcohol. The next day the couple would be leaving for their summer cottage in Aspen – Ava had already been dispatched there to prepare its ten rooms – so they would undoubtedly discuss the trip, ostensibly to be made in their aging, but trustworthy, Mercedes. JoAnne, though, had other plans for the trip, which Richard wouldn’t discover until later that evening. She could hardly wait for the moment when she would lead him out to the Winston’s patio where he would no doubt ogle the mint 1964 red convertible Mustang on the street below. JoAnne’s stomach did little flip-flops when she thought about the look on his face when she pulled the shiny set of keys out of her Coach purse and dangled them before his eyes. While Richard had long coveted such a vehicle, he had always pooh-poohed owning one, not wishing to look like a cliché, a 60-year-old man going through a midlife crisis.

JoAnne had news for him: the day 20 years before when he dumped his frumpy first wife for a newer model – her – he was already a cliché. At the age of 40, JoAnne was painfully aware that she was the same age as Deena was when Richard had traded up (as she liked to call it). She did everything she could to make sure it didn’t happen to her: she worked out, she kept things interesting – in the bedroom, of course, but also in their social life – and she kept an eye on possible competition. She was an adherent to the philosophy of keeping “your friends close, but your enemies closer.” That’s why she’d invited Yvette – the new 20-something intern at Richard’s firm, and Mai, the svelte Asian beauty with the mean serve from the tennis club – to Richard’s 60^thbirthday party. It was also the reason for the muscle car. It showed that she was confident in herself, and that she trusted him.

It was too bad that she’d had to invite Deena, the ex, and her sullen brat as well, but, again, it would show Richard her equanimity. The fact that might look like JoAnne was rubbing hers and Richard’s good fortune – their love – in Deena and the girl’s faces didn’t bother her a whit. It might be said that that was why she’d invited them in the first place. It certainly won’t be misconstrued as trying to cozy up to Missy, the 30-year-old girl-child; she’d given that up years before. Missy still slouched, never smiled and refused to wear make-up, even though JoAnne had done everything she could to make her understand that it was necessary in this world to put on a good face. She’d even offered to send her to finishing school, a gift the child outright refused and Deena seemed to resent. JoAnne secretly thought the girl was a lesbian.

Nonetheless, it would be a good evening and Richard would be delighted by the party, the gift and JoAnne’s obvious efforts. Afterward, she’d suggest a romantic moonlight drive in the new car (she’d bought a new Hermes scarf for the occasion). It would be perfect.

This is how it really was:

JoAnne broke a fingernail as she was pulling on her sexy new knee-high blue suede boots and Richard was late. Very late.

When he came in all rumpled and grumpy, he blamed his tardiness on heavy cross-town traffic. At least JoAnne had had enough time while waiting to fix her nail. She hoped no one would notice that it was fake. She kept a smile on her face, despite the fact that the poor Winstons would have to entertain 60 guests a lot longer than anticipated before she and Richard showed up. Then Richard refused the cocktail she offered him.

“I’m cutting back,” he said. “Maybe you should, too.”

That stung, but JoAnne continued to smile.

“Good idea, sweetie,” she said. And though she was dying to take a teeny, tiny sip, she poured the contents of the shaker down the bar drain. She eyed her Rolex.

“The Winston’s will be waiting ...” she hinted.

“Oh, god, do we have to?” Richard said, yanking off his tie. “Can’t we miss one Friday night card game?”

JoAnne had to think fast.

“They’re expecting us, dear,” she said. “Judy phoned today and went on and on about this new shrimp dish she was preparing – she knows how much you love shrimp – and there will be a new couple, the Bloombergs, yes those Bloombergs, who’ll be joining us. They just moved into the building a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t you always say you would love to get your hands on that family’s portfolio?” JoAnne laid it on thick, then added, “But it’s okay, love, we can just pop in, make our excuses and go. You must be tired, poor dear.” She went to stand behind him and massaged his shoulders, being extra careful of the fake nail. What if he refused to go? She wondered.

Richard groaned, but whether out of frustration or from the massage, JoAnne couldn’t tell. She’d never seen him so out of sorts.

“No, no,” he said. “We’ll go. It never hurts to meet new neighbors.”

“So true,” JoAnne agreed. “I had Ada lay out that lovely new silk shirt of yours.” Darn, she thought, why’d I go and say that? She mentally shrugged. Better than telling him to get his ass in gear, I guess.

Richard got the hint and headed to the master suite. When she heard the bathroom door shut and the water go on, JoAnne called Judy Winston. As far as JoAnne was concerned, Armand Winston had definitely traded up when he married Judy. She was young and decidedly lower class (she still made her own meals for pity’s sake), but definitely teachable.

Judy told her that all was well; only a handful of guests had arrived so far. That worried JoAnne, who’d hoped everyone would be there before she and Richard arrived. She hoped they wouldn’t run into anyone in the elevator or in the halls. Sometimes, she thought, people take being fashionably late a bit too seriously.

She sighed and quickly dialed the car service to make sure the Mustang would be delivered on time. It would be, she was assured for the fourth time that day. JoAnne didn’t like leaving anything to chance.

Finally, Richard appeared in the doorway, hair slightly damp and a tuft of toilet paper clinging to his cheek where he’d cut himself shaving. He wasn’t wearing the new silk shirt. Instead, he was sporting an ancient Western white and blue plaid with pearl snap buttons.

“Where in the world did you dig that up?” JoAnne practically shrieked. Why, oh, why hadn’t she thrown out that shirt and others like it eons ago? She was sure it was something Deena had bought for him – off the rack.

Richard looked proud and a touch defiant. “It still fits!” he said, ignoring the alarm in her voice.

“But, darling,” JoAnne said, “it’s frayed around the cuffs and not very fashionable ...”

“Tough,” Richard said. “We’re just going upstairs. The Winstons won’t give a flying fig.”

“What will the Bloombergs think ...”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

“But ...”

“JoAnne, give it a rest, would you?”

JoAnne bit her tongue. What had gotten into the man? She decided that this was a battle that she could easily lose, judging by his tone. He could just refuse to go at all. She gritted her teeth and smiled.

“Well, let’s get a move on, then, my cowboy,” she said, trying for light and funny. Even to her ears, it sounded a bit shrill.

Richard walked over to the bar, picked up the carafe of Drambuie, then set it down again. He sighed heavily.

“What’s the hurry?” he said, turning to his wife. “How long has it been since we sat down and just talked, you know, about real things?”

JoAnne was about to scream. Now he was going too far. She put her foot down.

“Richard, seriously!” she said. “We talk, we talk all the time.” He opened his mouth to disagree, but JoAnne wouldn’t let him. “Honey,” she soothed, “we have that nice long drive to Aspen tomorrow. We can talk all you want to, okay?”

“About Aspen ...”

JoAnne didn’t want to hear it. Not then, maybe not ever, whatever it was.

“Darling, we really must go!” she said, heading for the door and hoping he’d follow. “Judy called while you were in the shower,” she lied. “She bought a new card table and Armand can’t figure out how to set it up. You’re so good at that kind of thing.” JoAnne couldn’t wait to be on the other side of this whole evening; Richard sure would feel foolish, and contrite.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” Richard said, trailing behind her.

The ride up in the elevator was a quiet one. JoAnne checked and rechecked her make-up in her compact; she couldn’t bear to look at Richard in that horrid shirt. Richard kept his hands in his pockets and kept jingling his keys. A few more minutes, JoAnne reminded herself. Just a few more minutes. And Richard be damned, she was going to have a drink first thing, maybe two.

“Surprise!”

JoAnne hoped the photographer she’d hired had captured the look on Richard’s face when the door opened, especially since she had missed it. She was too busy scanning the faces of the beaming guests and, yes, posing a bit for the camera. By the time she looked at him, he was being drawn inside looking bemused, a tad shy and maybe just a bit irritated. But he was smiling, thank goodness. She headed to the bar while Richard accepted congratulations from the smiling assemblage. She couldn’t help but notice Missy, though, who couldn’t bother putting on a happy face for her own father on the occasion of his 60^thbirthday.

Not bothering to order a mixed drink from the cute bartender, JoAnne threw back a couple of quick shots of Jameson. The crowd was starting to gather in the small groups they felt most comfortable in. She kept her eyes on Richard who – surprise! – had a drink in his hand. He was still surrounded by a few guffawing tennis cronies. She couldn’t help notice, though, that his eyes kept wandering across the room.

JoAnne turned back to the bar and took a long look into the mirror on the wall behind it until she pinpointed the area where Richard’s furtive glances fell. It wasn’t hard to pick her out. Yvette was wearing a slinky, downright trashy red silk dress, slit from hem to thigh. She kept tossing back her long, black hair. God, the woman and her clothes were such a cliché! JoAnne caught a glimpse of Deena standing in the corner with Missy like two high school dance wallflowers. Deena, though, was watching JoAnne watch Yvette. JoAnne averted her eyes and ordered another Jameson. Grand, she thought, one thing I don’t need is that woman’s pity. And had she seen Missy actually smirk? She downed her drink and went in search of her husband, who was now heading the line at the buffet.

“Darling,” she said, taking him by the elbow and steering him away, “did you like my little surprise? I hope you’re having a good time.”

“Well, I definitely was surprised, that’s for sure,” Richard told her. He looked back at the buffet. “I really wasn’t quite done getting food ...”

JoAnne waved her hand and kept leading him across the room. “Oh, there’s plenty where that came from,” she said. “You won’t go hungry. Oh, look, there’s Yvette, let’s go say hello, shall we?”

JoAnne air-kissed the woman’s cheeks while Richard stood holding his plate looking, JoAnne thought, uncomfortable and completely out of place in the tattered shirt. Good, she thought.

“Yvette, dear,” JoAnne gushed, “where did you get that incredible dress?” She turned to Richard, who was stuffing a shrimp puff into his mouth. “Isn’t it incredible, dear?”

“Murffle lofle,” was all Richard could manage. One of JoAnne’s best-kept secrets was her days as a waitress. Her timing was still excellent.

She made a show of rolling her eyes, causing Yvette to look down at her feet. “Men,” JoAnne said, laughing, “especially old men; you can’t take them anywhere!” She threw back her head and laughed, making sure Deena and her brat noticed.

Embarrassed, but unwilling to make a scene, Richard stomped off to the buffet. The two women watched him go.

“Poor dear,” JoAnne said, “I don’t think he had his nap today.”

Yvette opened her mouth, then closed it. “Excuse me,” she finally said, “I really must find the washroom.”

JoAnne nodded regally and wandered back to the bar. She had a mind to flirt with the young bartender; she’d show Richard a thing or two. Instead, she ordered another scotch and watched her husband in the mirror. He’d been cornered by Deena and Missy Sourpuss. It didn’t seem possible, but Missy was scowling even more than usual. Deena and Richard looked none too happy, either. Maybe she’d finally told them she preferred women. JoAnne cackled aloud at the thought and threw back the rest of her drink. She spied the Winstons over by the fireplace and thought she’d better thank them for their generosity and lay on the praise. She wove her way drunkenly across the room, though to her mind, she was sashaying down a runway.

“You’re trashed!” Judy Winston crowed as JoAnne air-kissed her. “Armand, we might have to cut off our friend here.”

JoAnne narrowed her eyes. “I’m merely pleasantly tipshy,” she slurred. She decided to take back all the nice things she’d thought about her hostess. She was still crass.

“Is it here yet?” Judy asked.

“Is what where?” JoAnne said, wishing she still smoked.

“The you-know-what.” Judy looked around and didn’t see Richard. “The car.”

“Oh, crap, the car!” JoAnne started rifling through her pocketbook. “They were going to text me when it was here.” There was lipstick, a compact, a pillbox, keys … but no cell phone. It was probably still on the counter at home.

“Hell,” JoAnne said, “I’ll just go look. It’d darn well better be here by now.” She made an abrupt about face, nearly tipping over in the process, and headed toward the patio, noting that the Winstons still hadn’t replaced its god-awful sliding stained glass doors.

As she fumbled with the door latch, JoAnne was practically bowled over by Missy who was coming in from outside. The young woman instinctively reached out to steady her, then dropped her hands when she saw who it was. It was all JoAnne could do to stay upright.

“Ha!” Missy said, just inches from her step-mother’s face. Then she smiled an odd, sneering smile. “Ha!” she said again, and hurried past a confused JoAnne.

“Witch,” JoAnne mumbled. She stepped out onto the patio, getting yet another surprise.

Richard and Deena hurriedly pulled apart, but JoAnne was certain they had been locked in an embrace. She was drunk, but she wasn’t that drunk. She knew what she saw. She looked from one guilty face to the other and knew instantly what was going on. How could he?

“JoAnne, I, we ...” Richard said, holding out his hands to her.

JoAnne turned up her nose and brushed past him to the railing. With as much drunken aplomb as she could muster, she forged ahead.

“Richard, dear,” she said sweetly. “Come see your present.” She gestured to the street below where the red and white Mustang gleamed under a street light with a giant red bow perched on its convertible top.

Warily, Richard approached while Deena tried to make her getaway.

“Stop!” JoAnne commanded. “You need to see this, too, Deena dear.”

“Wow!” Richard said, leaning over the railing. “JoAnne, really, that’s just too much.”

Other guests were filing out onto the patio, oohing and aahing.

“No, Richard, it’s not too much,” JoAnne said. “It’s just right.” With that, she calmly plucked a stoneware planter off the cement railing, raised it over her head and hurled it over the side. She was amazingly accurate as the heavy object smashed through the top of the car, covering the white upholstery inside with shards, flower and dirt. “And so was that,” JoAnne added.

As one, the guests on the patio took two steps away from the crazy woman and uttered a collective “Oh!” as the pottery hit its mark.

“JoAnne!” Richard cried, “stop it! You’re acting crazy!”

“No, Richard,” JoAnne, still calm, said. “I don’t think so.”

With strength she didn’t know she had, she picked up a wrought iron chair and heaved it over the side as well. The cushion fluttered to the sidewalk, but the chair bounced heavily off the hood of the car, leaving a huge dent.

No one, not even Richard, had thought to stop her. A crowd started to gather on the street and the sound of approaching sirens filled the night. The sound reached JoAnne’s ears and she stopped as she reached for another heavy planter. Instantly sober, she scanned the appalled looks on the quiet guests’ faces. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Head held high, she walked back inside, the crowd parting before her. She shut the apartment door quietly behind her. A murmur rose up on the patio.

“Look!” Judy Winston said moments later as she surveyed the mayhem on the street below.

JoAnne approached the damaged car. She pulled a set of keys out of her bag, unlocked the door and slid in, dirt and all. She gunned the engine, then squealed away from the curb just as police cars rolled up across the street. 

No one ever saw her again.

Cool Cat

By Bettyann Moore

In this age of instant communication, are we really listening to each other?

 

The cat showed up on the day that Marsha Lyons was going to commit suicide. It was hard to tell exactly what color it was, so matted and filthy its fur had become. It was big, but skinny, that much Marsha could tell when she went out to feed the birds for the last time. It was hungry, too; it went right for the little pile of bread Marsha had put out, even though several birds flitted nearby.

“Too tired, huh?” Marsha said. “Yeah, I understand, trust me.”

The cat looked up at her with one green eye and one blue eye and meowed pitifully. Marsha started backing away.

“No, no way,” she told it. “I don’t need that kind of heartache.” She made a shooing motion with her hands and kept walking backwards. The cat sat down, but it didn’t run away.

“Good kitty,” Marsha said, “Just not today of all days, fella.” She finally reached the glass sliding patio door and hurried inside. The cat kept staring after her, despite the fact that a starling kept swooping close to its head. Marsha sighed. She’d been doing that a lot for the last six months. Sighing, crying, moaning and outright shouting at times, for all the good it did. She was still pathetically alone, unwanted and unloved.

To prove it to herself, she checked her Twitter account. She still had just five followers, four of which she’d never met in person; one was her hairdresser. She needed the business. No one had ever re-tweeted anything she had to say and probably wouldn’t now.

Marshmallow@marshalyons

The mangiest cat EVR just shwed up in my yrd! #GoAwayCat

DeliaBedelia@deliapooh

@marshalyons Awww, poor kitty! U R so cruel! #BeNice

Oh, that’s great,Marsha thought, now someone I don’t even know thinks I’m a jerk. She’d show her.

Marshmallow@marshalyons

@deliapooh It’s jst 2day I plan 2 kill myself. #NoTimeForCats

Marsha sat back and waited.

DeliaBedelia@deliapooh

@marshalyons Srsly? You have #NoTimeForCats? Love cats!

KatDoodle@katdoodle

@deliapooh @marshalyons Love cats, too! LOLCats 4evr! #CatsAreCool

“What the hell?” Marsha wondered aloud. “I say I’m going to kill myself and everyone goes ape over the cat?”

Marshmallow@marshalyons

@deliapooh @katdoodle U wldnt like this cat. It’s a mess!

As if it knew she was talking about it, the cat had positioned itself just outside the patio door and stared in at Marsha at the computer. She couldn’t hear it, but she could see its mouth opening and closing as it meowed. Another message pinged in.

DeliaBedelia@deliapooh

@marshalyons Call the SPCA! A vet! Did U feed it? #DontBeCruel

Retweeted by DeliaBedelia

RedFred@redfreddie

@deliapooh “Who’s the cat hatr UR following? I M #Contemptuous”

Marsha groaned. “Oh, for cripessake!” she said, glaring out at the cat. “Now I’m a cat hater? Fine, I’ll feed the damn thing!” But first, her fingers flew furiously over the keyboard

Marshmallow@marshalyons

@deliapooh @redfreddie @katdoodle Going out to feed it now! #ThereFeelBetter?

Under the cat’s watchful eye, Marsha hurried to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards. She hadn’t planned on being around after today, so they were pretty bare. Finally, she came across a dust-covered can of tiny shrimp she’d planned on using for a party that never happened.

“You better appreciate this, cat,” she said, as she wrestled with the old manual can opener. She sniffed the contents; they seemed okay. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” she said, pulling open the sliding door. The cat was up and at the can even before she set it down. It started purring as it gobbled up the shrimp. Marsha took the time to look the creature over. It may or may not be white, she decided. Definitely a long-hair. It would take electric clippers to get through the mass of matted fur. The cat was licking out whatever remained in the can, causing a racket of metal on concrete. Satisfied she’d done her duty, Marsha headed back inside. The cat tried to follow.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Marsha cried, kicking her leg out to shoo it back. She slid open the door quickly and darted inside.

“Hell’s bells, now I’m in for it,” she said, going back to the computer to see what was waiting for her. “That cat will never leave now.”

DeliaBedelia@deliapooh

@marshalyons Good work! Poor thing was prolly strvng! #CatsRock

“Cats rock indeed,” Marsha muttered to herself. “This one’s rocking the patio door right now.” The cat was standing on its hind legs and using its nose and paws trying to slide open the door. It was a good thing the door was heavy.

Marshmallow@marshalyons

@deliapooh @redfreddie @katdoodle The cat’s trying to open the door! #NowWhat?

RedFred@redfreddie

@marshalyons Let it in!

DeliaBedelia@deliapooh

@marshalyons Let it in!

KatDoodle@katdoodle

@marshalyons Let it in!

MustangGrl@mustangGrl

@marshalyons Let it in!

“Who the heck is MustangGrl?” Marsha wondered aloud. She checked her followers list. Sure enough, she was a new follower. So was RedFreddie. This was a first.

Marshmallow@marshalyons

@deliapooh @redfreddie @katdoodle @mustangGrl I’m sure it’s full of fleas! #MattedMess

MustangGrl@mustangGrl

@marshalyons Take a pic. We want to see!

“You want a picture?” Marsha said to the computer. “Fine, I’ll give you a picture.” She grabbed her cell phone and went to the patio door. The cat had given up trying to open it, but it was still sitting just inches away. Rather than go outside, Marsha took the picture through the glass. One could easily see what a disaster the cat was.

Perturbed that the day wasn’t turning out like she’d planned, Marsha figured she might as well reinstate her Facebook account; it never really went away anyway. Her friend list was just as spotty as her Twitter followers – a few old high school acquaintances, a couple of Farmville players and Ms. Sherman, her college biology professor. Marsha felt sorry for the old gal. During her junior year Marsha had stood up for the professor at a university tribunal that accused her of drinking on the job. It was well-known that the woman had a problem, but she was the only academic who was actually kind to Marsha, who actually seemed to like her. Coming to her defense – lying through her teeth, more like – was the easily the best thing Marsha had ever done.

She uploaded the picture of the decrepit cat to both accounts.

As Marsha knew she would be, Ms. Sherman was the first to say something.

June Shermancommented on this

Oh, dear, Marsha! What’s the story on this poor creature? You have such a big heart to take in the little thing.

Marsha Lyons Um, haven’t exactly taken it in. It’s outside on the patio. I did feed it, though!

June Sherman Good for you! Will you be taking it to the vet? Looks like it could use it.

Marsha Lyons Gosh, I don’t know Ms. Sherman, vets cost a lot of money. And I’m not sure I really want a cat …

At that point, Ms. Sherman sent a private message.

June Sherman

My dear, please don’t worry about the expense! I would be ever so glad to take care of it for you. The poor dear can be taken to my vet; she’s wonderful and so gentle with cats. My little furballs just love her! My grandson is staying with me this week – I think you met him at a mixer, Bradley? – I’ll send him right over with a carrier to pick up the cat. Oh, I’m so glad I can do this for you!

“Crap!” Marsha cried. “Why don’t people listen to me?” Fine, she thought, this’ll even the score and make the old lady happy. Once she realizes that I’m not around to get the damn cat from the vet, she and nerdy Bradley can deal with it.

Marsha Lyons

That’s so sweet of you, Ms. Sherman! Tell Bradley to come around the back, would you? That’s where the cat hangs out.

June Sherman

Wonderful! I called my vet and she’s only too happy to accommodate me. Bradley’s on his way!

“Great,” Marsha muttered. She quickly checked Twitter – there was a slew of messages, more than she’d ever had before – then went to the patio door. The cat was still there, but lying on its side on the concrete.

“What’d you do, go and die on me? That wasn’t exactly how it was supposed to work,” Marsha said, rapping sharply on the glass. The cat, who’d only been resting in the sun, snapped to attention and started rubbing up against the door. Marsha pressed her forehead against the glass and rolled her head back and forth. She had to admit that the darkness that usually overtook her by now had been kept at bay with all the activity and attention. If only every day was that way …

Just then the cat arched its back and hissed. Though surprised, Marsha had to laugh; it looked just like a Halloween cut-out. Then she saw the cause; here came Bradley with a large cat carrier. He didn’t look any too happy to be hissed at. He looked different, more grown up. Marsha eased the door open and stepped outside.

“Hey, Bradley,” she said. “I guess this won’t be very easy, huh?”

“Hi, Marsha,” Bradley said. “No worries. Cats and I get along pretty well. This one’s a real mess, huh?” The cat had relaxed somewhat once Marsha came outside, but kept a wary eye on the young man.

“I brought a secret weapon,” Bradley said, setting the carrier down and opening it.

Marsha peered inside and saw a bowl filled with wet cat food. “Good idea,” she said. “This one seems to be starving.”

The cat put its nose in the air and sniffed. Slowly, it crept toward the carrier, then crouched down with its nose just inches from the open door. It looked up at Marsha, almost sadly, she thought, then dashed into the box. Bradley closed the door right behind it.

“Nice work,” Marsha said.

“Thanks,” Bradley said, looking proud and shy at the same time. “Oh, here, I almost forgot.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a card and handed it to her. “My grandma’s vet,” he said. “She said you should call her – the vet that is – later this afternoon. She should know something by then.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” Marsha tucked the card into her own back pocket as Bradley watched its progress. “So, uh, good to see you,” she said. “I guess maybe you should get this one to the vet, huh?” The cat had finished its snack and was starting to yowl.

“Right. Hey, this is really nice of you, taking in this cat. A lot of people would just let it starve or get eaten by coyotes – shoot it, even.”

Marsha blushed. “Just doing my civic duty,” she said, then thought, civic duty? What kind of BS is that? “Be sure to thank your grandmother again for me,” she added.

Bradley pulled on a long, thick glove and picked up the carrier. “Just in case it manages to get a claw out of a hole,” he said, glancing down at the glove.

“Another great idea,” Marsha said. “Well, see ya.”

Marsha – probably the whole neighborhood – could hear the animal caterwauling all the way to Bradley’s car. Once the door slammed, all was blessedly quiet again. Marsha ran back to her computer.

The day flew by as Marsha answered tons of tweets on Twitter and messages on Facebook. The picture of the cat and her good deed had been retweeted all over the place. Her friends and followers grew. She was happily exhausted by the time she pulled the card out of her pocket and called the vet.

“Oh, Ms. Lyons,” Dr. Hunter said, “I just did a final check on your cat and he’s doing just fine.”

“He?”

“Yes, he’s a tom, I’d say about two years old. He’s a real sweetie.”

“Is he okay?”

“Oh, nothing major. Worms, of course, that goes with the stray cat territory, but those should be cleared up pretty quickly.”

Marsha shuddered. She hated worms of all types.

“My groomer had to sedate him to get him cleaned up,” the vet went on. “He really only had to shave the haunches and trim up some of the fur around the ears. Your boy has had a nice bath and looks very handsome.”

“This is going to sound strange,” Marsha said, “but what color is he?”

The vet laughed. “That’s not strange at all,” she said. “He was pretty dirty. He’s a beautiful, fluffy white.”

“Could you, you know, take a picture of him and email it to me?” Marsha asked. “Some, um, friends want to see him.”

“I can do that,” Dr. Hunter said, “but, actually, you can pick him up before 5 o’clock if you’d like.”

“Five o’clock today?” Marsha was surprised. “I don’t have food or a cat box ...”

“Oh, I fully understand,” the vet said. “Tomorrow morning would be fine, too. I just like to get my charges back into their homes as soon as possible. Less trauma that way.”

Not that he’s ever been in this home, Marsha thought. She’d hoped that the vet would keep the cat for at least a couple of days.

“I’ll send you a picture,” Dr. Hunter said. “Just give me your email address, and we’ll see you tomorrow morning!”

To say Marsha was surprised by the image that came into her mailbox would be an understatement. It didn’t look like the same cat at all. But, no, it was him; there were those funky eyes, one blue and one green. But they stared out of a big, white fluffball. He’s a bit skinny, Marsha thought, but what a difference a day can make. No one will believe this is the same cat.

On a whim, she opened her photo editing program and called in the two images. Side by side, the difference was even more amazing. She lined the two photos up in a single image and then decided to have a little fun by putting them into a frame and adding the words: FROM UNREFINED … TO FELINE SUBLIME. She saved the new image and tweeted it to her followers and posted it on Facebook. She added: It’s a boy! And he’s lookin’ fine.

The response was instantaneous and overwhelming. Tweets, retweets and messages poured in. It got to the point where she didn’t even bother responding to them all, except for one.

MustangGrl@mustangGrl

@marshalyons What’s his name?

Marsha only had to think for a second. The cat virtually named itself … himself.

Marshmallow@marshalyons

.@mustangrl Marshmallow Cat, of course! #MarshmallowCatRules!

She was mindful to put the period before the ampersand so that all of MustangGrl’s followers would see it as well. Before she’d quit her job, Marsha had worked in marketing.

She’d done it. Within an hour, #MarshmallowCatRuleswas actually trending nationwide. She didn’t dare hope for worldwide, but it felt so darn good. Her little feline – and she was now thinking of the cat as hers – was a celebrity.

“Duh!” Marsha said, hitting herself upside the head. She hurriedly checked to see if MarshmallowCat.com was taken. It was for sale, but to the tune of $2,100. She tried MarshmallowCatRules.com. It was available for just $11.50 a year. She quickly calculated how much it would be to buy all of the domains: tv, com, net, etc. then entered her credit card information. Then she tried MyMarshmallowCat. It was also available. The credit card was almost maxed, but Marsha took a chance anyway. The cat was golden.

“Crap!” Marsha said, falling back into her chair. “The cat!” She checked the time. She didn’t need to get to the vet’s that night, but she was eager to lay claim to the white fluffball. It was 4 pm.; there was enough time to hit the store and get essentials, then go pick up the cat. She shifted into high gear. Today’s LOLCat could quickly become tomorrow’s MySpace.

It didn’t take long for MarshmallowCatRules to become a hit. When she wasn’t working on the Web site and creating new Marshmallow Cat memes (Marshmallow Cat’s Rules for Life practically wrote itself), Marsha tried to stay on top of Marshmallow’s fan mail. He even had his own Facebook page and Twitter handle. Marsha kept his 500,000+ followers up to date at least once a day. She did it with an odd blend of triumph mixed with jealousy. It would have helped if she even liked the cat, but she didn’t.

It was a battle from the beginning. Marshmallow yowled all the way home from the vet, setting Marsha’s nerves jangling. Once inside and freed from his carrier, the cat scooted across the floor and wedged itself behind the couch. He stayed there for two days. Marsha cajoled and pleaded, put food in a bowl nearby and talked softly, but to no avail. Finally, she gave up and decided to ignore him.

He eventually did come out, of course, and Marsha was ready with her camera. She became a cat stalker. She snapped pictures of him during the day – eating, sleeping, pooping, playing with string – then worked long into the night using the pictures to create catchy and often sarcastic sayings for the Web site. Other than feeding him, photographing him and changing Marshmallow’s cat box, Marsha didn’t have much to do with the cat. He didn’t seem to like her much, either.

His favorite game was to dart out of wherever he was hiding, dash between her ankles, then run like mad to hide. She’d taken a few tumbles and imagined the cat snickering as she dusted herself off. She took to walking slowly and gingerly like an old lady. The worst was when Marsha was sleeping. The cat would sneak up, leap high in the air and come down, hard, on Marsha’s stomach. She tried shutting him out of the bedroom, but he cried and scratched at the door all night. She took to keeping a squirt gun on her bedside table, but the cat had a knack for knowing when she was in her deepest sleep.

But, hey, she reasoned, the little demon was beginning to bring in money, real money. Companies clamored to advertise on the Web sites. Random people sent in donations. Marsha could barely keep the line of coffee mugs, t-shirts and posters stocked. She entertained the idea of hiring a publicist. After a late night talk show host called a particularly pasty-white politician to “Marshmallow Cat in a Brooks’ Brothers suit,” every cat food, cat litter and cat toy manufacturer started courting her. Marsha started a publicist hunt in earnest. Marshmallow Cat had become a brand. And to think, she actually had plans to kill herself before all this.

The interview on a national TV morning show would just be the icing on the cake.

MarshmallowCat @MarshmallowCatRules

Hey, peeps, watch @MorningView,8 am EST Fri. & C urs trly! #MarshmallowCatHitsTheBigTime

Judging from the Twitter response, there was no doubt in Marsha’s mind that Morning View would see a huge uptick in viewers that day. Publicists would be seeking her out.

Still, there was the interview to get through. The producer insisted on doing a live remote from Marshmallow’s home. (Hey, it’s my home, too,Marsha thought.) It was just a three-minute segment, but how was she going to get the damn cat to like her for even that long? The producer had said something about how eager people would be to see Marshmallow curled up contentedly on Marsha’s lap. The closest the cat had ever come to Marsha’s lap was to use it as a springboard to get to the top of a bookcase. She wondered whether the producer expected Marshmallow to say pithy things during the segment as well. Maybe she could get the vet to give him a cat tranquilizer.

MarshmallowCat @MarshmallowCatRules

Just 5 hrs. til U get 2C me LIVE on @MorningView!

Marsha had to drag herself out of bed to post the early tweet. Marshmallow had succeeded in jumping on her soft middle twice the night before. She glared at the cat, who was peacefully lying curled up in a corner of the couch on one of her black sweaters.

“You should be typing this crap,” Marsha told him. “Oh, that’s right you don’t have opposable thumbs, thank the Lord.” She cackled, feeling especially spiteful and mean.

She fortified herself with a few cups of thick, black coffee, then scurried around to prep the house; the camera crew would be there by 6. Bradley, bless his heart, would be there for moral support. Thankfully, the cat kept sleeping, or she could never move that fast.

Although her hair was carefully coiffed and her makeup just right, by 5:45 Marsha was a frazzled jangle of nerves. Still, the cat slept on. At 5:59, however, that changed.

The doorbell rang and Marsha ran to the door. It was Bradley; she could see him through the door window. As if poked by Satan’s own searing pitchfork, Marshmallow shot awake, claws bared. He leapt off the couch and flew across the room. Just as Marsha reached the door, he ran between her feet, sending her through the window and slicing open her jugular.

MorningviewProducer @morningview

MMCat owner dies. BF will cont. MMCat. #FreakAccident

DeliaBedelia@deliapooh

Sry abt @marshalyons, but @marshmallowcat will go on!

RedFred@redfreddie

@deliahpooh Seen his latest? Hilarious!

Life Partner Part IV

By Bettyann Moore

Sleep never comes that night. I have been asked to think about two very large things and have no idea where to begin. Thinking belies the words that echoed throughout the Pleasure Dome: Don’t think, do. They served me well there.

First off, Boone can’t be right about Breeders never conceiving. There was Maya. Her belly had gotten big and round. Everyone was so excited … but then she had been taken away for a time and brought back, her belly flat once more. A false alarm, she told us. No matter how hard I wish it not to be so, Boone is right. At least during the 10 years I occupied it, the Pleasure Dome never produced a child.

Now the really hard thinking began. We were Breeders who couldn’t breed. We were given food, robes, a bed, and never were required to do anything except Couple. I’d never thought about it before, of course, but why? Humbots were required to do our bidding; if one fell to disrepair, it was removed. If a game we played malfunctioned, it was repaired or replaced. Isn’t it logical to believe that if Breeders didn’t breed, that they would be removed or replaced?

The next thought almost made me sit bolt upright, but I held myself back. Who, I wondered, would do the removing, the replacing? Other than humbots, Breeders were the only beings in the Pleasure Dome. Who supplied the food? Who provided the clothing, the beds, the CU-Screenplays … everything? Was it the Ancients? I thought about Ishmael. He knew many things, but his body was weak, his eyesight dim. I wondered, then, just how many Ancients there were.

Still, no one was ever replaced that I could remember. We reached 20 years of age and moved to the Colony. Where did we go from there, though? Did we become the Ancients? Another thought made me gasp. If the Breeders weren’t breeding, where did new Breeders come from? There was a steady population; odd how I’d never even considered how many of us there were. It was never crowded. Were there 200? 500? Many more than that?

All these questions I’d never thought of before, but had no answers. Even though Boone frightened me with his talk about being in danger, I could hardly wait for the morning and our walk by the ocean. He must have some answers for me. There were also many more things I wanted to ask Ishmael.

The next morning I’m groggy, but determined to make the most of the time Boone and I will have out of doors. With mask firmly in place and his hand in mine, I begin asking questions even before we reach the ocean.

“How am I in danger?” I begin. “Where do new Breeders come from? How many Ancients are there? Will I and other Old Ones become Ancients? What happened to Miron? Why do we not have children? Are all humbots like you?”

Boone squeezes my hand roughly. I take it as a signal to be quiet. We can’t get to the ocean fast enough.

Once there, he places his hand on my neck as before. This time we walk along the shore as we communicate.

“All of your questions will be answered,” Boone says before I can ask some more. “But since our time outside is short, many will not be answered until we are at rest tonight. First you must tell me how it is with your Ancient.”

“One very quick question before I answer that,” I say. “When did the bees die?”

By his hesitation, I can tell that he is surprised by my question.

“The last documented sighting of honey bees was 210 years and three months ago,” he finally answers.

That stops me in my tracks. If, indeed, Ishmael had been alive when the bees were still on the earth as he said, he is beyond ancient. How can that be?

“Diana,” Boone interrupts my thoughts, “tell me how it is with your Ancient.”

Despite my misgivings; Ishmael had warned me not to say anything, after all, I tell Boone everything. I leave nothing out: the books, the reading, the globe, even how he wheezes and seems weak. That part seems to interest Boone more than anything else as he tightens his grip on the back of my neck.

“It is as I feared,” he says. “The Ancient grows weaker and will need the LifeSpark very soon.”

LifeSpark. Before I can ask, Boone rushes on.

“No, not all humbots are like me, but there are many,” he says, seemingly answering my most trivial question first. “Our creator saw the vast psychosis that gripped the minds of those in power. More brilliant than all those minds put together, he buried within our microscopic circuitry a conscience – for lack of a better word – that would only engage should there be an awakening within us. No human, except you, knows this and it must remain so.”

“Understood,” I say. I, who have never been asked to keep a secret in her whole life has been asked to keep two very large secrets within the last few days. One promise has already been broken.

“Breeders do not breed because that is not their true purpose,” Boone goes on. “You will not like to hear this, but if you thought about the things I asked you to think about last night, you will see that what I say is true.”

I try to prepare myself for what he’s about to say. Instead, he asks me a question.

“Diana, what do you see before you?” he asks, taking me aback.

“Well, I see windmills and I see water, a great deal of water, as far as my eye can see.”

“And you saw a globe at your Ancient’s, did you not? And you saw where we are?”

“Yes, but he said it was an old globe.”

“Do you believe that on that globe – on this earth – there is but that small place where we are at this moment? That the rest is covered with water?”

I’d never given that a thought at all and I tell him so.

“Then have you thought where things might come from? Your robes, your food, any of it?”

At last I can tell him, that yes, I had thought of that, just last night.

“There are other lands, Diana, even now,” he says. “There are other people, other cultures. Not as many as 200 years ago, but they exist. And they trade between themselves.”

“Trade?” I ask.

“Yes, they trade commodities. One culture still produces metals and has the wherewithal to create foodstuffs. Those are commodities. Another has – and will not share – the technology to create soft goods – such as fabric for clothing, the skins and hair for humbots – out of the very rock and sand in its surroundings. Not even the most sophisticated humbot has been able to unravel that secret. All of them produce their own energy. Water, sun and wind are abundant.

“There is another, but I will not speak of that place now.”

I thought about those things and I realized at the same time that this land – my land – was none of those.

“And us?” I asked. “What is our commodity?”

“This is the part you will not like,” he warned.

“Tell me.”

“Entertainment. The people of your land produce entertainment for all the rest. Youare the commodity.”

It takes a second for me to understand his meaning. I think of the Pleasure Dome, of all the Couplings, the CU-Screens … it suddenly feels like someone is ramming a spike into my belly. I double over, even knowing how it must look, and vomit into the ocean. I don’t care if it results in another interview.

“We must go now,” Boone says. “We have been much too long here. We will blame your sickness on too much exposure.”

Frankly, I didn’t care what we blamed it on. And though it wasn’t fair or logical, right then I blame Boone for all of it.

“Why did you tell me all this?” I cry as we trudge back to the Colony. “Have you nothing good to tell me?” I know I am being reckless, but I simply don’t care. One part of me wants Boone to do or say something reckless.

Instead, he brings his hand back up to my neck as if to help me along.

“Diana, if there is good to tell you, I will tell it. But if I am found out, all of the telling will end.” He drops his hand to the small of my back.

How could I be so stupid? I hang my head in shame, remembering that Boone is trying to keep me from danger, a danger he has yet to talk about. I grit my teeth, then grab hold of his hand. It’s all I can do at the time.

Thankfully, there are no humbots waiting for us in our chambers. The CU-Screen is playing yet another DigiRest screenplay, which always end with beatific smiles on peaceful faces. My hand goes automatically to my pocket. I think back on how I was and how I am now. Oblivious is what I was. Ignorant. A commodity. Had I ever done anything simply because I wanted to? Had I ever placed value on life, on others? Given just a little bit of knowledge I find I want more. With a tiny understanding of how life works, I want to participate in it, actually choose how my own life is led. If there is danger ahead, I would rather know than not know.

I stare fondly at Boone, who prepares the evening meal. Even he is manipulating me, though guiding is perhaps a better choice of words. And that is all right. I can choose not to allow it or to allow it. And that makes all the difference.

That night, when Boone places his hand against my neck, I reach up and hold it. Then I pull it gently to my breast. I know there is no surprise built into Boone’s circuitry, but I still smile a bit, imagining it to be so. I pretend that his readiness isn’t merely programmed. And while I turn toward him and bring my lips to his, I think briefly of the CU-Screen, then dismiss it. Boone is my life partner and this is what I choose.

We don’t talk that night, but it’s very early when I feel Boone’s hand below my ear again. I’m ready to hear what he has to say.

“Diana, I am glad that I have been able to please you.” That wasn’t what I expected to hear and it makes me snuggle closer. Of course, being a humbot he has to go and ruin the mood.

“There are but two Ancients, Diana, yours and a female, equally as old.”

Another surprise. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.

“Radiation and chemical poisons humans set loose on the earth, killed much of its population. The smaller creatures went first. Then plant life. There was a huge human toll, but the largest part of that was not death, but a shorter life and sterility. Those few who were able to conceive gave birth to still-born monsters. Only a dozen or so still had viable seeds and eggs, and now just two.”

I knew which two; he didn’t have to tell me.

“One was a brilliant, but insane scientist. He searched his whole life for a Fountain of Youth. He killed many in the process, but he did, indeed, find it. He discovered the LifeSpark, an infinitesimally small particle imbedded deep within the brain. It is removed, then injected into the chosen few. The donor, if you will, must be alive and awake during removal. Immediately afterward, however, they die.

“I believe you are the next donor,” he adds.

My whole body goes cold, but Boone holds me closer.

“Immediately after the injections, the Ancients are able to produce rejuvenated eggs and sperm. As many as possible are harvested, then grown in a laboratory … the source of the new members of the Nursery and the Pleasure Dome. Indeed, the source for the rest of the world. An even more important commodity.”

The members of the Colony, then, are ready-made donors. And worse, Ishmael is everyone’s father, including my own. I think I may be sick again.

“As the Ancients grow older, though,” Boone goes on, “fewer and fewer fertilizations work ...”

Just then, the door to our chamber slides open. I can’t help myself, I scream, while Boone is already pulling on his clothing. Six humbots march in. One goes directly to Boone and inserts a probe into his ear. He becomes immobile.

“What do you want?” I cry, grabbing my robe from the floor.

“You have been summoned to the Ancient,” one says. “Now.”

It’s as Boone feared. Why else would I have an escort on a day I am to see the Ancient anyway? Frightened, trembling and utterly alone in this, I know I have no choice. The only hope I have is knowing that Boone will overcome the probe, eventually. But then what? It’s not like he could come swooping in, overcome a phalanx of humbots and whisk me off. And to where? My hope fades.

The humbots have to carry me; I’ll go, but I won’t go willingly.

Not surprisingly, I’m not taken to the library this time. Instead, I am deposited in a large, glaringly white room in which there are two long metal tables. One has arm, leg and head straps. Between the tables stands a robot with multiple mechanical arms. Very un-humbot-like, it almost makes me laugh until I realize that it’s probably a surgeon robot. I am left alone until a door slides open and Ishmael, sitting in a motorized chair on wheels, rolls through it.

“Welcome,” he says, “I’m so glad you could join me today.” He chuckles and rolls his chair closer.

He looks stooped, shrunken. His skin hangs in mottled pockets from his face and his fingers look like long, skinny claws. I’m repulsed and my face must show it.

He frowns, wheels the chair around and stops by one of the tables.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” he asks. There’s an edge to his voice. “Not pretty enough for you? Too old and decrepit?”

It occurs to me that he must not see me as a threat, otherwise why would he be alone with me in his weakened condition? I could easily overpower him … unless he thinks I’m too ignorant and witless. And, to his mind, I am ignorant. I intend to make sure he continues to see me that way.

“My apologies, Ancient … Ishmael,” I say, hanging my head. “This visit was so abrupt, so confusing. It saddens me to see you this way,” I add.

He smiles slightly. “Very well, my dear. Your apology is accepted. And, please, allow me to offer my own.” He sweeps his hand in the air. “I’m sure this all looks very scary to you, but I’m giving you the chance to help your old friend and teacher.”

I put an eager face on, all the while toying with the DigiRest in my pocket. “How can I help?”

Then he tells me things I already know as I pretend to be amazed and delighted. He leaves out two important pieces of information: that the infusion is necessary to produce seed, and the small part about me dying in the end. I, of course, am not supposed to know all that.

“Amazing!” I say, when he’s done. “Here I barely know the alphabet, but some incredibly intelligent mind discovered the LifeSpark and can keep you alive forever!” I see by how he sits up straighter in his chair that the flattery is working. I don’t honestly know why I continue the charade. I should just slip my finger into the DigiRest and be done with it. Maybe, though, like him I’m clinging to life as long as I can.

“Actually, I was that ‘incredibly intelligent mind’ who made that discovery,” he brags. “I bet you can’t guess how old I am.”

It would be almost worth it to see the look on his face by guessing 200 or so, but I reign myself in.

“Oh … hmmm,” I say, “40?”

He laughs, wheezing and coughing halfway through. “No, my dear, I am the ripe old age of 215!”

“Oh, my!” I exclaim. “An incredible discovery indeed.” I can’t help myself, though. “I wonder,” I say, taking a few steps toward him, “why can’t such a wonderful tool can’t be used to keep everyone alive forever?”

“Folly!” he cries, letting his true self come through. “A total waste of time to preserve minds such as ...” he stops himself, then continues more softly. “There are many, many complex reasons why that can’t be so,” he says. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about them.”

His disdain for me – for everyone – comes through loud and clear. I find myself getting angrier and angrier at his lies and contempt. I am close enough to touch him now, if I chose to. This anger is confusing; I’ve never felt the urge to do harm to anyone, but right then I feel as if I could reach over and tip him out of his chair. But then what? Instead, I do the only thing I can think to do. I pull the DigiRest out of my right pocket.

“I think,” I say slowly, “that I will decline the offer to help. I believe it will cause pain and I don’t like pain.”

What he does next surprises me more than anything. He actually throws back his head and laughs.

“Ha!” he says, wiping tears from his eyes, “my greatest invention yet! Go ahead, my dear, see how it fits.” He reaches out much more quickly than I think possible and grabs my wrist. “Here,” he says, “let me.” His grip is surprisingly strong. He grabs my other wrist as well.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “it won’t kill you. That’s the lie we tell to give you idiots an illusion of choice. Before I came up with this little beauty, we had Old Ones killing themselves left and right. Poor stupid babies couldn’t stand the idea of being out of their little womb Dome. But we couldn’t have that.”

I look down at our hands, his gnarled fingers biting into my flesh.

“It doesn’t kill us?” I say, still incredulous.

“No, no, no. Oh, it’ll knock you out for a good long time, long enough to get you stored away for a LifeSpark infusion, but kill you, no. It doesn’t work if you’re dead. It was so much easier when I could use the smaller children … but, alas, their LifeSparks are too strong. Many an old friend paid that price.”

He seems to be drifting off into memories and I feel his grip loosen a bit. A long sleep, I decide, is better than just giving in.

It all happens so fast. I manage to get the left hand free for a fraction of a second. We fumble and struggle, but I do it, I jam the DigiRest onto a finger.

It isn’t however, my own.

The look on his face is not the peaceful one from the DigiRest advertisements. First, there’s amazement, then an ugly grimace of horror. It may not kill a younger person, but I do believe it has killed him.

As he slumps in his chair, a door slides open and I don’t bother to look up. If I have to pay the price, I’d rather not see it coming.

“A last,” says a voice from the doorway. “We must act quickly.”

I look up to see the Ancient’s senior humbot. He rushes to the Ancient’s side and presses his fingers against his neck. I’m too paralyzed to move.

“He is dead,” the humbot says. “You must come with me now before it is discovered.”

“What? You’re helping me?”

“Indeed,” he answers. “It is my duty, as it is your humbot’s duty.”

“Is Boone all right?” I say. This humbot must be one of the others of his kind that he had spoken about.

“He is, but we must go now. He will join us there.”

“There, where?” I ask as we scurry out the door and into an elevator.

“Your questions will be answered in due course,” he says as we descend at a great rate of speed.

“May I at least have your name?” I ask.

“I am called Michael,” he answers.

The elevator stops, but we don’t get off. Rather, Michael inserts a forefinger into a hole on the panel and we resume our descent.

When the door opens it opens into a dark, dank hall. It seems to be carved from the very rocks of the earth. Water drips along the walls and sometimes on our heads as we make our way down its length. My light robe is scant protection from the cold and damp. It is the first time I recall ever being truly cold.

At last we come to some unevenly carved steps. Michael leads the way up, but at the top there is no door. He cocks his head as if listening, then again inserts his finger into a hole I hadn’t noticed. A heavy door swings slowly open. Light, at last. And Boone.

“Diana,” he says, “I am glad you are safe.” It’s not exactly a warm greeting, but I know it’s the best he can do. I run to hug him anyway.

“I didn’t mean to kill him, Boone,” I say. “We were struggling ...”

“All is well,” Boone says. “You must now leave, though.”

“Leave? Leave for where?” It’s then that I notice we’re near the ocean and there is a strange, large craft that seems … yes, it’s sitting atop the water.

“The other land I spoke about,” Boone says. “You will be safe there. No one knows of its existence. It is well-protected from any surveillance.”

Michael comes up to stand next to us.

“The eggs and seed have been obtained and loaded,” he says. “All is ready.”

“The eggs? The seed?” I say.

“They are needed to help repopulate,” Boone says. “The Ancients kept many generations frozen.”

My gaze goes back to the craft. I see a very old woman being carried between two humbots, sitting regally on their crossed arms.

“The other Ancient?” I ask, nodding.

“She was as much a prisoner as you,” Boone says. “She wishes to live the rest of her life in freedom. She will likely never see the new land. She is aware of this.”

I’m just as eager to get away. “Let’s go then,” I say.

“No,” Boone says, I think with some sadness. “I must stay. There is must work to be done. The children in the Nursery, the Breeders … all will need guidance and education. The leaders of the other lands will be unhappy when the CU-Screens are disabled. It is my duty.”

I throw my arms around him once again. I understand, but I will miss him. There are still many questions, but I ask only one.

“Boone, why didn’t you simply kill him yourselves?”

“We are incapable of killing,” he says. “It is hoped that one day, your kind will be as well.”

I nod and see that Michael is holding out his hand to lead me to the vessel. I walk toward him, then stop.

“No,” I say, turning to Boone. “I wish to stay.”

For a moment, he appears flummoxed.

“There is danger,” he finally says. “The land is hostile. The work ahead is enormous. We may never be able to leave again ...”

“Nonetheless,” I insist, “I can be of use. I know the alphabet. I know of a library.”

“But ...”

“I know, it’s your duty,” I say. “And it’s my duty, Boone, to use the freedom I now have in the way I see fit.” This is the most frightening thing I’ve ever thought or said, but I know it’s right. And it is.