Mistaken Identity – Part 1

It started with an email.

SUBJECT:  Horse statue

TO:  info@fancystuffmag.com

FROM:  robert.bowen@hotmail.com

Greetings from Seattle! I recently attended the Great West Living Trade Show where I picked up a copy of your very fine publication. It’s the issue from November, 1996. Vo. 3, Issue 101, it says. On page 33 there is a picture of a room in the featured home of Gayle and Norbert Clausen (what a great couple!). On a side table, there is a small sculpture of a horse rearing back on its hind legs. I collect equestrian arcana and this statue would suit my collection perfectly! Is there some way in which I can find out where I can purchase one like it? I know it’s a long shot, but ever since I saw it, I had to have it.

I would appreciate any help you can give toward this endeavor.

Sincerely,

Robert C. Bowen, Administrator

Little Museum on the Hill

Margo sighed when she read it. Ever since she’d become the editor of Fancy Stuff magazine just six months before, she’d received similar requests:  Who made that rug on the front cover? You did an issue back in 1989 that had a bowl of fruit on the cover (I think it was fruit, it might have been dogs or something) and on one of the pages there was this woman wearing a red vest … 

At first, Margo did everything she could to help these readers find what they were looking for. She’d spend hours going through electronic archives, when available, or flipping through back issues housed in a cold, damp basement room of the Fancy Stuff offices. Rarely was she able to fill their requests; sometimes they had the wrong magazine to begin with. This time, however, she knew exactly what this Mr. Bowen, Administrator, was talking about.

TO:  robert.bowen@hotmail.com

FROM: info@fancystuffmag.com

Re:  Horse statue

Dear Mr. Bowen,

Thank  you for your kind words about Fancy Stuffmagazine. As the editor, I’m always happy to know our readers appreciate our efforts. I’m also glad to hear you attended the Great West Living Trade Show; I was there as well. Perhaps you stopped at our booth! It was a hectic event and I didn’t get nearly enough opportunity to chat with our visitors.

As far as your request goes, it happens that I was at the Clausen home photo shoot (you’re right, they’re a great couple) and I was the one who placed that very sculpture in that spot (to provide more visual interest). I can tell you it was hand-sculpted by Mrs. Clausen herself and is one of a kind (hence the reason we didn’t include it in the feature’s Buying Guide).

I wish you luck finding another suitable piece for your collection.

Sincerely,

Margo Upton, Editor

Fancy Stuffmagazine

Margo hit “send” and thought that would be the end of it. She was, of course, wrong.

SUBJECT:  Your kindness

TO:  info@fancystuffmag.com

FROM:  robert.bowen@hotmail.com

Dear Ms. Upton,

Imagine my surprise when I received your email; I had no idea that info@ mail went to the actual editor of the magazine! I am flattered that you spent the time and effort to reply to my request about the horse sculpture. I am, of course, disappointed that the item is one of a kind, but my search for something similar will continue.

I guess you don’t remember me from the Great West trade show. I do remember you, however. Such lovely green eyes you have, if I may be so bold to say. I was wearing an olive green blazer with black slacks, tan shirt and a delightful black tie sprinkled with tiny horse heads, a gift from one of my museum’s benefactors. Perhaps you remember the tie? You did seem terribly busy, no doubt talking to potential advertisers … what chance do we readers have against that?

At any rate, I am fascinated by the small details you included in your missive. Do editors usually go on photo shoots? I was under the impression that that was left to artistic directors and such. I must say your placement of the horse in that spot was sheer inspiration! You must have artistic talents of your own.

I’m sure you’re a busy woman, so I won’t ask the dozens of other questions running through my mind. Please know, however, that I am eternally grateful for your kindness.

Your fan,

Robert Bowen

Margo was both irked and flattered by the letter –  implying that advertisers were less important to her than readers! And that comment about her eyes – they’re definitely one of her best features, but what was he doing checking out her eyes? And to think for one minute she’d actually remember him from the thousands of people who’d stopped by their booth during the three-day trade show? Please! Still, he sounded like a nice guy; educated, too. And she’d never had a fan before …

“Knock, knock!”

Startled out of her reverie, Margo looked up to see Carl, her administrative assistant leaning against the door jamb, clutching a pink “While You Were Out” memo slip.

“Yes, Carl?” she asked, closing her email program.

“This memo,” he said, coming up to her desk, “is there a problem with it?”

Margo knew which memo he was talking about and stifled a sigh.

“Well, yes, Carl, there is,” she said, reaching for it. “I have no idea who called, for one thing.” She lay the paper on the desk facing him. “You’ve only written ‘George’ … at least I think it says George …  George who? What company is he with, if any? And the phone number … there are just seven digits … Philadelphia area code, or what?”

She looked up at him as he squinted down at the slip.

“Hmmm, well, he rattled his name off so fast, I couldn’t catch it. And I did think he did mention ‘metalworks’ or something … Bombay, maybe?” He cocked his head thoughtfully.

This time, Margo did sigh. “Bombay Hook Metalworks,” she said. “George Singleton?” she added helpfully.

“Yes! That’s it!” Carl cried, clapping his hands together. “So you knew all along!”

With that, he turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Margo sighed louder and rose to open the door. As with his inability to leave coherent messages, Carl always forgot that Margo had a literal open door policy with her staff. It encouraged, she believed, a better office atmosphere. If the door was closed on occasion, it was only because she was on an important call (usually with the publishers), or with a client who dropped in, which rarely happened.

Margo had never had an administrative assistant. Carl was a complete whiz when it came to spreadsheets, business letters, arranging meetings and trips, and making people feel comfortable when they visited. But when it came to messages, phone or otherwise, he was hopeless. He had an aversion to asking people to repeat themselves, thinking it would irritate them perhaps. Margo liked to be mentally prepared before she talked to someone, so when Carl buzzed her office to let her know that “someone’s on line two for you,” it irritated her to no end. And if she made him get back on the line to find out who it was, it made him cranky for hours.

Margo sighed again, turned to her computer and pulled up the electronic version of the issue currently in the works. The press deadline was a week away.

*

Long after the rest of the staff had gone home, Margo rubbed her eyes and stood up. The issue had needed a few tweaks, there were some holes to fill and she’d had to find room for a last-minute full-page ad, but it looked good, one of their best ever, she thought. She walked to a window and looked out into the early darkness. Light snow fell. The magazine office was on the top floor of a three-story brick building shared by an Internet service provider, an insurance company and a chiropractor. Across the street were a couple of small restaurants, a shoe repair shop and a newsstand. Not exactly a hopping commercial zone. Margo hated the idea of going home to her empty apartment and opening a can of soup for supper. Not for the first time did she regret letting her ex-husband keep the cats. She could use the company.

Margo went back to her computer and pulled up Robert Bowen’s letter.

TO:  robert.bowen@hotmail.com

FROM:  margo.upton@fancystuffmag.com

Re:  Your kindness

Dear Mr. Bowen,

Once again, I’m writing to thank you for your nice words. Some days are harder than others, especially during deadline as we are now, but your note brightened my day considerably.

A little over the top? Margo wondered. She deleted the word ‘considerably.’

Emails sent to info@, sales@ or editor@ are, by default, routed to my inbox. I am sending this letter from my personal magazine account and, should you like, you can send mail directly to that address.

Oddly, Margo rather liked the idea of more email from this man.

Upon reflection, I do think I might remember you from the show! Were you wearing a book bag over your shoulder?

A small lie and a good guess, Margo figured.

If the magazine decides to do the Great West Living show again next year, I’ll be sure to send you some complimentary tickets. Please stop and say hello!

Tickets or ticket, Margo wondered. Would he come alone?

As you surmised, editors don’t usually attend photoshoots; we leave that to art directors, but I’m a hands-on kind of manager who likes to know all aspects of the publication’s creation. To call the placement of the statue “inspired” is much too kind, though I do have some artistic ability.

Margo hadn’t wanted to go on the photoshoot at all, but her publisher insisted. One week after taking the job, she found herself on a plane with a seasoned (and stoned) photographer and a ream of scribbled notes from the art director, headed to an enclave of high-end homes in the mountains of Colorado. The Clausens seemed nice enough, but Mrs. Clausen turned out to be, as the photographer called her, “the art director from Hell.” She had a habit of dashing in front of the camera lens to adjust “just one little thing” that seemed “all wrong” right before the shutter was clicked. Margo had, indeed, placed the horse on the table, but only to keep the photographer and the old lady from coming to blows.

I’m fascinated by your Museum on the Hill; I did a Google search on it, but nothing came up. Perhaps you can tell me about it sometime?

Time for me to head home. It’s begun to snow and I’d hate to get stuck here (though I am prepared:  the couch converts to a bed and I always keep extra clothes, etc. here).

Best wishes,

Margo Upton

The next day, while Margo furiously edited a poorly written story from a freelancer (whom, Margo swore, she would never use again even if she did have a 900-word hole to fill on page 20), the intercom buzzed.

“This is Carl, your admin,” Carl deadpanned over the phone, making Margo smile. “There’s a call for you on line three from a Robert Bowen, no company affiliation mentioned.” Before Margo could take in the information or quell the butterflies in her stomach, the line seemed to go dead, but she could hear light breathing and some sort of classical music in the background. Carl liked heavy metal.

“Hello?” she said tentatively.

“Hello, is this Mar … uh, Ms. Upton?” said a decidedly intriguing, deep voice.

“Yes … is this Robert Bowen? My apologies for the awkward phone transition, my admin ...”

“Oh, no need to apologize at all! I’m just so glad to finally be able to talk to you, to put a voice to your emails and your face.”

Margo was glad he couldn’t see her blush.

“How nice to hear from you, Mr. Bowen,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

What can I help you with? Why so formal, she wondered.

“It’s the Little Museum on the Hill,” Bowen said, without preamble, “not the Museum on the Hill. That’s why,” he added, confusing her further.

“That’s why …?”

“That’s why you couldn’t find us in your Google search! That little word ‘little’,” he said, chuckling, “is a big deal when it comes to these Internet searches. You must have missed that word … though you’re an editor ...l but I know you’re busy and all with your deadline. If you try it again, make sure you type in Little Museum on the Hill and I assure you, you’ll find us. Why, you’ll even find our Museum Cam!”

“Museum cam …?”

“Yeah, it’s amazing! It’s this little camera, like they have at traffic signals? It sits atop the museum and you can see the whole valley below it, plus the people going in and out of the place. Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes when I come into work, I like to give it a little wave.” He chuckled and Margo followed suit.

“That sounds very innovative, Mr. Bowen ...”

“Please, call me Robert.”

“Okay, Robert then ...”

“And I feel like I know you, may I call you Margo?”

“Um, sure … Robert ...”

“Great, that means a lot to me, Margo. Now, look, I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you, but thank you so much for the great little chat. You sound just as wonderful as you look.” And, with that, he was gone.

Margo stared at the receiver in her hand for a minute before setting it down.

“What the …?” she wondered aloud. “He called to tell me that I needed to add ‘little’ to the name of his museum? Did he actually imply that, as an editor, I should have caught that? Did he say I looked wonderful?”

“You’re talking to yourself, boss lady,” Carl said, startling her once again. Margo gave him a look. “You told me to remind you about the editorial meeting, so this is your reminder. Conference room, 10 minutes.” He turned on his heel and left, shutting the door behind him.

A few seconds later, an email pinged into her mailbox.

TO:  margo.upton@fancystuffmag.com

FROM:  robert.bowen@hotmail.com

SUBJECT:  You

Just wanted to tell you that I’ve been on Cloud Nine since we talked. I hope we can do it again.

Best,

Robert

Margo went into the meeting with a smile on her face.

Over the next two weeks, three things happened that set a course:  First, Gayle Clausen died. Second, there was a special delivery for Margo. And, third, it snowed like hell.

*

The deadline came and went; Margo always found great satisfaction when she opened the boxes the printer sent to the office. After each monthly issue was put to bed, Margo and her staff spent a few days clearing their desks and gearing up for the next issue. Each day, Margo received a note or two from Bowen; she now knew he was a year older than she, he was a cat person, he loved classical music and he volunteered at a Seattle soup kitchen once a week. She liked what she had learned so far.

Carl was putting forth a good effort to remember names; he was trying word association this time.

“There’s a pickle guy on the phone for you,” he told her one day.

“A pickle guy?”

“Yeah, you know … it’s a pickle brand ...”

“You mean like Vlasic?”

“Yes, but that’s not it.”

“Heinz? Mt. Olive? Clausen?”

“That’s it! Clausen! A Mr. Clausen is on the phone.”

While Margo applauded Carl’s efforts, the guessing games were wearing thin with her.

“Mr. Clausen,” Margo said into the phone, “how nice to hear from you!” She was used to getting calls from people featured in the magazine; they usually wanted extra copies of the issue to send to friends and relatives.

“Hello, Margo, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” Clausen said. Margo would probably always think of him as Mr. Pickle.

“No, not at all, we just got the last issue from the printer and we’re taking it easy,” Margo told him. “How are things in Colorado? How’s Gayle?”

Clausen cleared his throat. “That’s why I’m calling, actually,” he said, clearing his throat again. “We lost Gayle two weeks ago today.”

“Lost her? Oh, no, you mean she passed away? I’m so sorry to hear that!” Margo may not have gotten along with the woman, but she really was sorry for Mr. Clausen’s loss.

“Yes, well, thank you,” he said. “My Bunny was always rather high strung, I don’t know if you noticed that, and she had a massive stroke. Just keeled right over while watching Oprah.”

“I’m sure you must miss her terribly,” Margo said. She never was good at dealing with death.

“Yes, yes I do, but we had some wonderful times together ...”

Margo was just a bit confused as to why he felt the need to call her, someone who’d only met them once.

“So, is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” Clausen said, rallying, “I called to let you know that Gayle remembered you.”

“Remembered me?”

“Yes, she remembered you in her will.”

“But ...”

“No ‘buts’,” he said, stopping her objections. “She remembered how you seemed to like that horse sculpture she made, so she left it to you.”

“Oh, my ...”

“I’ve already shipped it out to you. Should be there by tomorrow. Someone will have to sign for it.”

“Mr. Clausen … Norbert … I’m touched by this, truly,” Margo said, and she was.

“Gayle wanted you to have it,” he said, as if she were arguing with him. “I hope you find some enjoyment from it.”

“I know I will,” Margo replied. “Thank you so much.”

“No thanks necessary, it was Gayle’s wish. Please let me know when it gets there; it’s insured, but it’s … it’s one of a kind like my Bunny ...” He was choking up. “Good day to you now,” he said, hanging up.

The next day, Carl signed for the delivery and brought the package to her office. The big box held yards and yards of bubble wrap; the sculpture nestled inside. About 10 inches high, the statue really wasn’t Margo’s cup of tea, but she tenderly placed it on a corner of her desk. She thought of Robert Bowen and the irony:  he had wanted the statue so badly that he had contacted her about how to get it … and now she had it. She thought, briefly, about simply giving it to him, but it would go against a dead woman’s wishes. There was no reason, she figured, to tell him about it at all.

It was hard not to say anything. Robert called her at least once a week, “just to say hi.” Margo, working hard on the next issue of Fancy Stuff, had taken to staying late at the office so they could chat online. She had yet to buy a home computer. It was harmless, she reasoned. He lived clear across the country, after all, and he could be amusing … and very attentive. He sometimes said things that threw her off-balance, but being off-balance was good sometimes, wasn’t it? She wasn’t ready to date and this, it seemed, was the perfect alternative to loneliness. He respected her work hours, although one morning she received an instant message that read:

At 4 o’clock your time, take at look at the Museum Cam!

He popped offline before she could ask him what was up and at 4 o’clock brought up the Little Museum’s Web site and clicked on the camera icon. There wasn’t much to see, just some blurry trees far below in the valley and a sidewalk running through an expanse of lawn. Margo marveled about how far technology had come just in her lifetime, but still wondered why remote cameras couldn’t produce crisp images.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the edge of the screen, a man carrying a large, white object. He was wearing a beret and black raincoat. He stopped on the sidewalk and held up the object … a sign that read “HI MARGO, FROM YOUR BIGGEST FAN!”

Delighted, Margo whooped with laughter. On the screen, Robert waved, did a little soft shoe shuffle, then headed into the building, disappearing from view. A minute later another instant message popped up.

Hope you liked the show! Talk to you later!

Margo smiled and made plans to stay late that night.

Roses

by Colleen Sutherland

Portia. Constance. Bianca. Sydonie. At night, their images waft through my nightmares. By daylight, their scent lingers throughout this apartment. I rush through my morning rituals to leave them behind, but even on the streets of this small town, they are there, mocking me, always a presence.

It was Great Aunt Chloe who introduced me to her flower world. She took me in when my parents threw me out. I was only a teenager but was already trouble. I came to live in her old house, so old and useless that ramshackle was too good a word for it. The rusted old kitchen plumbing, the old light fixtures, the old furniture. It was too dreadful. I never brought friends home.

When I first arrived I thought the many plants growing in Aunt Chloe's windows were an attempt to hide the awfulness of the house, but soon I realized the house existed for the plants, at least in my aunt's mind. They were only there to pass the time until spring.

In mid-March it all began with the first snowdrops pushing up through the spring mud. Aunt Chloe dragged me out of the warm house and through the slush crying “Come see!”

The snowdrops were followed by crocuses, daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths. Each new arrival demanded my presence. I laughed silently as she bent over them, her butt the perfect model for one of those plywood lawn ornaments. I detested the gardens but tolerated her and her damned flowers because while I hated the house, it was a place to hang until I turned eighteen. With all those plants, no one noticed the marijuana I grew in my bedroom. Though Chloe recognized each leaf her garden, she didn't know what weed was.

“Ah, you're catching on,” she said. “You'll be a gardener yet.”

Her special pride was the rose garden that lay between the house and the funeral home next door. The first roses arrived at the end of May. She told me their names. The first was Mr. Lincoln. Climbing the highest along the fence were the Seven Sisters, and of course Sydonie, Wise Portia, Fair Bianca and Constance Spry. She had climbing roses, tea roses and rose trees in every shade from white to deep purple. She gathered rose bouquets to fill vases that she spread throughout the house. Whenever there was a funeral, she filled a vase or two for the deceased. The last to bloom was in October. I didn't mind. As long as the roses served as room deodorizers, she didn't notice that I was smoking pot in my room.

All through summer and fall the flowers came, wilted , and died until even the hardy mums quit. No longer was I called on to “come see” and I was left in peace except for the pots of geraniums that flourished in the bay window bringing with them spider infestations. Throughout the winter she was spraying everything with evil smelling organic remedies that replaced the scent of roses and still covered my tracks as I smoked on.

I left Aunt Chloe as soon as I was of age but life never went the way I wanted it to go. I wandered from city to city and never found a real place of my own, a job , or a man I could hang on to. Then word came that Chloe was ill. Her friends thought I should come home and be there at the end. I scraped together enough money for a bus ticket. Two days after I arrived, the old woman was gone, leaving me the house.

Finally, I had a place of my own. I began to throw out the plants but that revealed the peeling wallpaper. I left them alone. From time to time, I watered them whenever I thought of it which wasn't very often. Still they thrived. It was as if Chloe was still tending them.

I took out a mortgage on the house and that gave me something to live on. I hung out at the bars at night and during the day smoked pot. I wrote novels that were never printed painted watercolors I never sold. I didn't worry over much. Something would turn up. I invited guys from the bars to come and live with me but I threw them out when they didn't give me money for mortgage payments. I could live without sex. I couldn't live forever without money. I took out a second mortgage in those halcyon days when bankers handed out money with no questions asked.

The gardens were weedy, but I didn't care. By June the flowers took over and the weeds were just so much foliage.

As I said, something always came up. The funeral director came over one day and asked if I was willing to sell the house. He wanted to expand the funeral home. In this town of old people, business was thriving. He needed more parking room, too. He made an offer but it would barely cover the first and second mortgages and I would be left with no place to live. I refused.

Then the bank president came and suggested I take the money. He was getting nervous, too. The recession was on and he knew the bank could get stuck with the old house.

Finally there was an intervention with the funeral director, the bank president and even the president of the Chamber of Commerce. “You're holding up progress” she said.

“Make me a better offer,” I said. They did. Both mortgages were paid up with money to spare. I took the cash and bought this condo. It would do until something else came up, I thought.

The funeral home tore down the house and paved over the lot and all the flowers. It was as if none of it existed.

But come spring, cracks formed in the asphalt and thorny twigs pushed up. The contractor was called in and a new layer of asphalt laid down. It did no good, the twigs kept appearing. He brought in botanical experts who recommended herbicides. They sprayed. And re-paved. It took three years before the roses were finally eradicated. Spring came and nothing was there but the black parking lot.

It was in early spring that the banker was killed in a robbery. I went to the wake out of curiosity as most of the rest of the town's population did. He was laid out in his coffin, with the wound cleverly hidden. All around were the floral arrangements sent by businesses who had dealt with the banker. They were expensive, as was his due. Most of them were rose baskets, so many they filled the viewing room. The sweet smell reminded me of my Great Aunt Chloe and her garden. I hurried out.

Two months later, the president of the Chamber of Commerce was killed when she hit a white tailed deer out in the country. I didn't go to the wake but as I walked past the funeral home, the smell of roses came wafting out when someone opened the door.

Tea roses, I thought. Seven Sisters. The scents were coming back to me as memories.

And finally, it was the undertaker's turn. As fall turned to winter, he was felled by a massive stroke. His son and heir put on the very best funeral ever. I stood outside in the dark, watching as van after van brought vases and baskets of roses sent from all around by the families he served. There were so many flowers that the bouquets started working their way out the door, sitting on the steps and even on the sidewalk.




And now it is winter. Outside, the snow is falling, a real blizzard. I can't escape this place. The condo has been up for sale for months but no one is showing any interest. I sit here in my living room, wrapped in blankets, afraid to move in case I trip and hurt myself on the vines that are creeping out of the walls. They are shadows but I know what they are planning. Soon thorns will prick and tear at my flesh. All around me are Sydonie, Portia, Bianca and Constance. I can smell them. They are waiting for me.

I hate roses.

Cleaver

I will say one thing about the sidewalks of Osaka: a man can run barefoot without worry of catching a piece of broken glass, jagged rock, or rusty metal shrapnel. This is good because the only light comes from distantly-spaced streetlamps, the headlights of oncoming cars, and open doorways full of jeering faces. They gleefully shout a phrase my jumbled brain translates as “she's going to kill you.” Only the men shout. An old woman looks up as my frost-numbed feet slap past her doorway. She screws her face, summoning all her wrinkles to aid in giving me a hairy eyeball. I have never met her before, but she is certain of my guilt. That makes one of us.

Sue screams a litany of curses behind me in Japanese, which is wholly unfair. The least she could do is curse in English. Or tell me what I did wrong. Or given me enough warning to put on shoes before chasing me out of our apartment. The only thing I understand for sure is the cleaver in her hand.

Americans don't fully appreciate cleavers anymore. Sometime after the war, we outsourced our cleaver lore to supermarket butchers, and the cleaver's smaller more agile cousin, the chef's knife, became the largest knife in the household. Today in America few bother to break down larger cuts of meat at home. For those that do, the experience is usually confined to chickens and the odd turkey. We have forgotten the simple brutality of a stout, straight blade, how it scarcely notices the flesh on its way through joint and bone. Its purpose is to turn large meat pieces into smaller ones, and we are all made of meat.

 Sue keeps yelling at me as I turn the corner, a screech really. The same screech I hear on garbage day, laundry day, promised trips to the beach, five seconds before the TV is shut off, or meeting me at the door after bar time. Her tangerine-dyed hair is plastered against her face, cheeks mottled red with anger and exertion. She is like a blood orange of death. A woman places a hand on her child's shoulder as we run by. She glances at me then at Sue with no more concern than for passing traffic.

A truck comes out of an alley in front of me and I have to either stop, leap over the hood, or get off the sidewalk. I can't jump that high, and I sure can't wait with Sue just a few seconds behind me. I turn into the alley. There's no light, just shadows and reflected neon glow. My chest is burning, the rest of me is freezing. I hear the hum and rumble of a garage door, a beam of light in at the end of the alley promises sanctuary.

I pump my arms and trust to the patron saint of boyfriends with psycho girlfriends to give me strength. I feel a scrape against the pavement, and warmth as the bottom layer of my foot's skin sloughs off. There's no pain, but I don't dare look until I'm safe. The garage door is nearly closed, if I can only reach it...

I'm falling. My hands fly out in front of me and skid against the pavement, burning as I lose more skin to the alley's pavement. I see a glimpse of my palms  turned into bloody hamburger just as the garage door seals and puts the alley back into shadows. I scramble up and run.

Walls squeeze in around me, locked doors mock me. Sue's shriek echoes down the alley. The alley's other side is blocked by a chain-link fence. I throw myself at it, crying against the fire in my hands and bloody foot as I make my way up.

Her footsteps patter louder. Tiny feet drumming against the pavement. The drumming stops and there's a whistling in the air. I feel a breeze pass just under my heel. I scramble up higher. There's razor wire at the top of the fence that I can't get over, but fortunately, Sue is under five feet, and can't reach me as I cling just under the barbs. The cleaver sings through the air under me as Sue swings with all her strength. The air robs me of my strength, my fingers are slipping.

I run though the list of things that could have set her off. I was home late from the bar. I forgot to feed the goldfish last week, all week. Then I accidentally set the fishbowl on the radiator and we found the fish churning belly over dorsal in a slow simmer. But that was last week, right? She couldn't still be mad at me for that. I said I was sorry. She might have smelled the cigarette I sneaked today at work. Maybe her girlfriend Mitzi caught me looking and called Sue about it. That's not my fault though, if Mitzi didn't want to be looked at, why dress that way? Besides, Mitzi texted me first.

All these things are reasons for the cleaver, but a guy would really like to know why.

image is from the user Chris 73 and is freely available at //commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:DebaBocho.Cleaver.Japan.jpg under the creative commons cc-by-sa 3.0 license.

Barn Burnin'

Johnny J. Potter is another of my recurring characters. He’s a whiskey-making, skirt-chasing storyteller who lives somewhere in the Appalachians. This is one of his first stories.

By Bettyann Moore

You ever been to a good ol′-fashioned barn raisin′? Don’t see much o′ that no more. I recollect one barn raisin′in particular … no, now, that ain’t quite right. It weren’t the raisin′ of that barn I recall so much as the burnin′of that barn the day after we done raised it that I recollect.

It were Clarence Peterson’s barn andit burnt down all on account of Lester Garth didn’t want to take no bath that night.

It were Halloween night and Judd Olson were right peeved at his woman, ʼLizbeth. She done took off and ol′Judd were certain she were takin′a roll in the hay with Clarence Peterson, though I can’t see how he figgered it were Peterson, a regular bag o′bones he was and had a nose like a carrot. Anyhow, Judd were fit to be tied and he grabbed his shotgun and lantern andset off into the night to catch his missus andClarence. He weren’t gonna shoot ʼem, mind you, he jes wanted to scare the hide offa ʼem.

Fact o′the matter is, Judd weren’t about to be out on Witches Night without no light and no shotgun. I ain’t one to talk ill o′folks, but in these parts they is right superstitious. Oh, sure, they’s superstitious in the usual way – weren’t no one what would walk under a ladder, andfolks kept clear o′graveyards in a full moon – but there was ones like Judd what took stock in all sorts of ghostly doin′s and the like. If he weren’t so all-fired peeved at ʼLizbeth, he sure as heck wouldnta been out on All Hallow’s Eve … and ʼLizbeth – truth be told – sorta counted on that.

Now, Cotton Cooper were cut outta the same cloth as ol′ Judd, only on this Halloween, Cotton set out to do battle with Satan hisself. Seems Cotton done heared folks talkin′ʼbout a sure-fire way to keep evil away and it could only be done on Halloween. What Cotton din′t know was folks was just joshin′him, knowin′ that Cotton were none too bright. That’s how he got the name Cotton – short fer Cotton Head – all fluff andno seed.

Anyhow, folks tol′him that to get rid of the devil, ya gotta go out on Halloween night and find yerself 13 black cats and put ʼem in a gunnysack, carry ʼem down to the river, say the Lord’s Prayer three times, then throw the whole thing into the water.

So that’s what he were doin′jes afore Peterson’s barned burned down. How he ever found 13 black cats, we never knowed, and the truth be told, ol′Cotton had a few in there what weren’t pure black. That could be why he were so nervous, knowin′he were cheatin′ the devil and all. What a sight he musta been, a-stuffin′them cats, one by one, into that sack! But he done it and flung it over his shoulder and took off down the path to the river, them cats kickin′up a terrible ruckus.

Things sure woulda been simpler if Cotton weren’t so dang dumb – he coulda knocked them cats on the head or sumpthin′, maybe even wrung their necks. And maybe Clarence Peterson’s barn would still be standin′.

Now, Preacher Jeremiah Upworthy were new to this neck o′ the woods and he were mighty dismayed ʼbout the size o′ his congregation. Fact was, folks was jes plain bored durin′his services. He din′t have the fire in him like Rev. Turner before him. Now there were a preacher! Full o′hellfire and damnation, he were. His sermons set the chapel to rockin′ let me tell you. He got folks so worked up, they come outta there wringin′with sweat, a-feared the Lord would strike ʼem down if they din′t come back the next Sunday. Rev. Turner kept the house packed. Preacher Upworthy were lucky if two pews was full.

I figger Upworthy were sick andtired hearin′ ʼbout how Rev. Turner kept folks all worked up from Sunday to Sunday, andon Halloween night he reckoned he’d do sumpthin′about it. He set out to go door-to-door – dressed in a mighty unusual way – to scares people into goin′back to church. It were a shame he picked Lester Garth’s house to stop at first.

If there ever be a soul needin′savin′, it’d be Lester Garth – a gamblin′, whorin′ polecat what liked to shoot dogs fer sport. AndLordy, how he looked the part! He done lost an eye wrastlin′with one o′ his brothers and never did bother to have Doc take a look at it. He never wore no patch over it neither. Right ugly cuss.

And, man oh man, how he did smell! Lester Garth weren’t one fer takin′a bath. Fact were, there weren’t too many folks what took baths ʼcept maybe once a month or once a week if they was goin′to church. And you know how many of ʼem was doing that. But ol′Garth, he din′t see fit to take no bath but maybe two time a year, andeven then he’d be kickin′and cursin′ all the way to the tub. And with Garth, what with the boils he had oozin′pus, the stench were right powerful.

Now Garth’s wife – yep, he were married, and there weren’t no one more surprised ʼbout that fact than Garth hisself – she were fixin′to get him into a tub that Halloween night, come hell or high water. She were a right toleratin′woman and a godsend to Garth on accounta she were born without the use of her nose – she couldn’t smell a skunk at two paces. But she did have eyes and them eyes could see how bad her man was lookin′. When he walked in from the barn, she had the tub a-waitin′fer him and that’s when all hell broke loose.

Garth come draggin′in in a poor temper – one o′his heifers up and died givin′birth to a still-born calf. When he come in, the last thing he were wantin′ to see were a tub full o′ steamin′water and to hear his woman naggin′at him to get into it.

Garth, a powerful big man, jes glared at his wife and walked over to that tub, picked it up and carried it over to the open door.

Preacher Upworthy were comin′alongside the Garth house dressed up like Satan, fixin′to scare folks into comin′back to church. He done hisself proud with that get-up – it were complete with horns and tail and flames painted up and down his body. He was just about to step inside the door when ol′Garth let go and sent that scaldin’ water a-flyin′– and Preacher Upworthy too.

That preacher took off like a shot, hot water drippin′ down his devil duds, shreikin′like a banshee.

Cotton Cooper was strugglin′ down the path with that sack o′ cats when outta the woods comes a devil, cursin′and yellin′ at him. Cotton let go that bag and high-tailed it outta there with the devil at his heels. And since he were too stupid to have tied that sack, them cats come outta there spittin′, yowlin′ and screechin′ and headed down the road right into Clarence Peterson’s barn.

Judd were jes climbin′down outta the hay loft after checkin′the barn fer the third time, still lookin′for ʼLizbeth, when he says a hunnert or more black cats – the devil’s own – come in after him. The ladder rocked and swayed whilst he were tryin′to climb back up, and down he come, sendin′buckshot into the air and his lantern to the floor.

Only took but a minute or two for that fire to catch hold, time enough fer Judd to get out, but I reckon some o′ them cats was fried right well. Only took a few more minutes fer the whole darn barn to blaze up – spankin′new barn, gone in an hour.

Clarence Peterson, asleep in his house the whole time, come runnin′out jes in time to see the walls cavin′in. Ol′ Judd were right surprised to see him – ’Lizbeth weren’t with him after all.

Heck, I coulda tol′him that. She were with me all along.

Uncool at Any Speed

Photo by Milkmandan

Squid Rosenfield drummed a tattoo on the countertop. He picked up a green mini flashlight from a bin marked “3 for $5,” clicked it on, clicked it off, and put it back. He singled out a quart of synthetic oil from a counter display and looked at the back label, wondering if it would tell him the real difference between the contents and the stuff they got from the ground.

The label kept him occupied until Jordy Halverson emerged from the shelves with a plain cardboard box cupped in a hand.  He set it on the counter and pushed it across to Squid.

"There's your PCV valve, Squid," Jordy said. "Probably the least expensive part you've had to replace on that thing."

"How much?"

"Thirty-three ninety-four."

Squid ripped open the box and shook out the valve, a black plastic contraption that looked like two plungers stuck together. There had to be more to it than this, Squid thought. He fished out a folded paper wad from the box and smoothed the sheets: a packing slip, an inspection sheet, and sixteen diagrams of the part labeled in as many languages.

"Seems like a rip-off to me," Squid said.

Jordy snorted. "Maybe you should've bought yourself another car. Hell, you could have bought a new one by now with all the cash you spent keeping it running — not that I don't mind the business, Squid. But finding parts for a '96 Suzuki X-90 is like finding a nun who gives hummers."

Squid set his jaw and stood straighter. "It'll be a classic one day, just you wait."

"It might be, but is it worth it, Squid?"

Squid held up the PCV valve. "Put it on my account, okay?"

***

Squid would have liked to do his repair work in the woods. It was peaceful, it had a soft floor, and a person could always find a tree branch handy for hanging tools and parts. However, the Suzuki, somehow divining its replacement part had arrived, stalled out and quit altogether on the way into town, forcing him to push it into the nearby bank parking lot and walk to the auto parts store. He decided he'd just have to endure the stares and suppressed chuckles from passersby as he fixed the car in public.

The car's paint job was like a supermodel's lipstick, a red deeper than sunset without a single dust mote or fingerprint ruining the sun's reflected gleam. Pale alloy wheels stood out against tires black enough to look wet. A tiny spoiler on the back suggested speed, a slight lift to the body hinted at Baja races in the desert, and the compact two-seat cabin was soccer mom kryptonite. Over fifteen years old, the car still looked as if it had just come from the showroom floor, thanks to Squid's care. The Suzuki used to take his breath away, but now Squid only sighed at the burden of maintenance.

He opened the hood and set about removing the old valve. If there was a God, he'd put the engineer who designed the engine in a special hell where he'd have to swap out parts for eternity on his own creation:  the narrowest, darkest, and most jagged-edged, knuckle-busting engine compartment Squid had ever known. Maybe one day, people would stop mentioning his Suzuki and he could quietly buy another car. He'd tell them he'd replaced the X-90 years ago, and they were just noticing it now. Then they'd stop talking, stop laughing, stop reminding him of the worst decision he had ever made.

A horn blared, causing Squid to knock his head into the car hood.

"Never say die, Squiddy!" said a teen, just before revving the engine and ripping down the street.

Damn, now he'd have to reset the clock on buying a new car for at least another three months. This time, he would be sure to check the sales numbers on any car catching his eye. The X-90 had been a commercial disaster, a sporty coupe promising fun and adventure, but delivering little more than average performance, odd looks, and no cargo space. Squid had unknowingly joined the same club as the owners of Edsels, Gremlins, and Azteks.

The repair took longer than expected only because a screw dropped and landed somewhere around the oil pan, necessitating Squid wriggle under the car on his back and paw blindly for untold minutes. God should add another twenty years to the engineer's penance for that one. Squid wiped his hands, forearms, and elbows on an old t-shirt, and walked across the parking lot to throw the grease-smeared rag away. He checked his hands once more before reaching for the door handle. After sliding behind the wheel and starting the car, he sat listening for a few minutes, waiting for his heart to be broken by engine wheezing, sputtering, or any other change in pitch or timbre heralding a botched PCV valve replacement. Everything seemed fine, which meant that while he wasn't out of the woods yet, he could relax for a while.

He let out a breath and clapped his hands. He reached for the gear shift when the passenger door opened and a man in a gorilla suit slid into the passenger seat.

"Drive," the gorilla said.

"Get the hell out of my car," Squid said. He pushed against the man's shoulder, and was brought up short by a snub-nosed revolver.

"I said drive," the gorilla said.

Squid nodded and put the car in gear. The gorilla grunted and placed a small canvas bag with the bank's logo down on his furry lap while he struggled with the seatbelt.

"Where do you want to go?" Squid said. The gorilla waved the gun down the road.

"That way. Just don't speed or run a light, okay? If not, bang." He shook the revolver at Squid's head.

"Don't worry, I wouldn't want to get the upholstery all dirty," Squid said, surprised at the words coming from his mouth, even if they were the truth. Did he just smart off to a bank robber? He turned onto the highway out of town, wondering if it would be better for the car to break down or not. If the car stalled, would he wind up dead, or would the gorilla man run off and carjack someone else? He glanced from the road to the speedometer and back, keeping the Suzuki as close to 30 as he could without going over. The gorilla shifted next to him, switching the gun from one hand to the other and muttering.

"No damn pockets in these things," he said. He settled for tucking the gun under a leg. "Don't think I can't reach it in time if you try anything funny."

Squid nodded, and the gorilla focused on the bag in his lap.

"If you don't mind me asking, you much money is in that little bag?" Squid asked.

"Enough to buy a thousand piece-of-crap cars like this one."

"I'll have you know a mint X-90 can cost over six thousand dollars. That bag's not big enough to cover a thousand cars like this one."

"Shut up and drive."

Squid was about to fire back when he remembered the monkey had a gun, so he stared straight ahead and let the speedometer creep to 33. The man tugged at the bag's zipper, which seemed to have black artificial fur jammed in its teeth. They were approaching the city limits with nothing but open road for the next fifty miles. Where were the cops? Squid listened for a police siren carried on the wind and watched in vain for flashing lights in his mirrors.

"Stay calm," the gorilla said, "I'm getting out a few miles from here. If you do as I say, you won't be hurt."

"There's nothing out there," Squid said, "just the national forest."

"You know how us gorillas like trees," the man said. He looked around as they passed the last house in town.

"Go faster," he said.

"But the speed limit doesn't go up for another quarter mile," Squid said.

"Just do it." The gorilla jerked some more at the bag on his lap, and let out a laugh as the zipper cleared. He reached inside the bag and out came a pop like a champagne cork. Something hot and wet splattered against Squid's cheek, and a pink mist filled the air. The man cried in rage, muffled by his mask. Squid slowly turned his head and looked.

The gorilla was covered from head to belly in neon-pink paint. A few bills of unknown denomination stuck to the suit's fur. Wide eyes behind the mask stared in shock at the bag, pink tendrils still curling from its zippered opening. The man leaned forward, and Squid's heart seized up. In the passenger seat, against the black cloth, cloth impregnated with yearly Scotch Guard applications, cloth carefully brushed each month– not vacuumed lest it crush the nap, in that cloth lay a vague gorilla shape limned in neon-pink. The pink splatter continued on into the headrest, the passenger door, the roof lining, the window, and into the back seat.

Squid stomped on the gas. Forever –the word ran through his mind. The Scotch Guard wasn't proof against bank-robber paint, and even if it was, the ceiling and door panel were not protected. Why hadn't he thought of that? Now everyone would remember the car, for the rest of time. He'd never be rid of it. My God, they'd say 'there goes Squid with his pink monkey seat,' and laugh their tails off. 'What happened to your car with the monkey seat, Squid?' The local kids would dress up in gorilla suits and demand rides. It'd be pure hell.

"Slow down!" the gorilla said.

"You told me to speed up!"

Squid figured the robber wasn't a local. If he were, he'd know the local deputy liked to sit in a blind driveway just outside of town, hoping to catch drivers cheating before the limit officially changed. Squid figured it was a racket to get extra donut money from tourists. Since the deputy would recognize Squid's car, maybe she'd give Squid some leeway rather than the strict enforcement saved for strangers. But she might take exception to a Suzuki doing sixty-three and counting in a fifty-five with a partially obscured windshield and a gorilla riding shotgun.

Squid saw the red and blue lights a moment before the siren wailed. The man in the gorilla suit looked back, and scrambled for the gun. Squid slammed on the brakes, seatbelt straining across his chest. The gorilla's gun bounced from the dash, landing on the floor mat. The gorilla went after it. Squid reached down, pulled the hand brake, and slewed the Suzuki around. Tires, rotated every 5,999 miles, would now have permanent flat spots. The gorilla let out a muffled grunt as he hit his head against the door.

Squid released the brake and accelerated towards the oncoming squad car. The gorilla searched the floorboards, hampered by a seat belt that wouldn't let him go any further forward.

"Make peace with your God," Squid said, "I don't think your side has airbags."

"What?" The gorilla looked around the paint-splattered windshield into the flashing headlights of the oncoming cop.

"Get out of the way!" The gorilla held his arms as if to ward off the crash.

The cop car slid broadside and stopped in the road. Squid could see the deputy's eyes, wide and white, her mouth half-formed in either a prayer or a curse.  Squid pulled the handbrake again and turned hard left. The Suzuki's front corner panel hit first. Red paint flecks, undoubtedly still covered with last week's wax coat, arced overhead. The ground seemed to lurch, and a giant's hand tried throwing Squid from his seat. The passenger side hit next, turning the paint-smeared window into cotton candy, the door bulging like an angry blister. That would be the frame buckling, which meant the car would have to be totaled. Squid smiled. The world tottered for a moment before crashing back to flat and level. The gorilla's mask twisted toward Squid seemingly of its own accord. The man's hair and part of an ear visible from the eye holes, the mask's muzzle pink as bubble gum.

"I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead," said the muffled voice. "It's all dark, I'm in hell."

Squid turned his head and addressed the empty eye holes.

"No sir, you're not in hell. Hell is reserved for murderers, child molesters, and automotive engineers."

The driver door opened, and the deputy yelled at him to keep his hands where she could see them. Other sirens approached, Squid heard a car fighting to come to a stop. Squid slowly raised his hands and made himself ready to do whatever the nice lady with the gun said.

Listen

Photo by David Benbennick

by Bettyann Moore 

The last time any of us saw Minnie Pennywell she was chasing after the 5:10 Greyhound, scrambling and leaping over half-frozen mud holes in her black high-button shoes, skirts hiked high above her knurly knees.

Lockjaw Summers, tipped back on his orange crate on the porch of Meyer's Store, was the last to have words with her. Imagine, Lyle “Lockjaw” Summers – who once spent three hours in the company of Franklin Delano Roosevelt and afterwards when pressed for details replied, "He's a nice enough fella.” – having the last words with Minnie Pennywell! If there was any message for me, any hint that she would be back, Lyle wasn't saying.

Minnie spent a great deal of time in Lockjaw's company in those last few weeks, hunkered down, elbows on her knees, in a cane-backed chair she'd pulled up close to his crate. Those of us who walked by ... and all of us did at one time or another, busily flitting in and out of Meyers' for this and that ... could see Minnie's lips moving with surprising speed. She paused only to take in great gulps of air as she talked to Lyle in a low and hissing voice. Her chair has been put into service propping open Meyers' door in this sweltering heat, but Lyle sits, head cocked at a curious angle as if he is still hearing her, still listening – she would say – as none of us ever did.

In all fairness, to myself and the rest of the good people of Farrell, we tried to listen to Minnie, tried to hear what she was really saying.

"If you would just listen," she bullied us, "you would hear the pain all around you. If you would listen, you would hear your own pain." Well, we were listening, I'm sure, but we heard nothing unusual.

When she said she was lonely, didn't we invite her to sing in the town choir despite her squeaky soprano?

"Anything that is too stupid to be spoken," Minnie replied to the invitation, "is sung."

Minnie spouts quotations and wears them like a fine chain around her neck. The people of Farrell would have gladly hung her up by that chain after that remark.

They didn't, of course, but if they did seem to ignore her afterwards, who could fault them? Ignoring her was a luxury I could ill afford, though. The room we shared at Clayton's Boarding House echoed with the distemper of her moods. Overflowing waste cans, great piles of soiled laundry and grey, twisted sheets littered our small domain. Minnie held forth from a cross-legged position upon her unmade bed while I sat perched on the only chair in the room, her captive audience of one.

Often, as I sat there, I tried to imagine her as a young girl. Did she always strut and preen so? What adult in her life taught her to smoke in that way, cigarette dangling from her lips, smoke tearing her right eye? Did the child that she was look into a mirror and say "This face is angry and should be framed in black"?

I made the mistake – which would have been a small one with anyone else – of asking as she paused for breath, "Why do you wear only black?"

She choked on the smoke she'd inhaled, dislodging her cigarette onto her bedspread. She sprang up, pressed her face so close to mine that I could smell her tonsils and hissed, "I'm in mourning, Charlotte. I am in mourning for all the words that have died, spoken like prayers, evaporated into the thick air of indifference."

I would have asked her what she meant by that, but behind her smoke rose from the bed and though the word "indifference" hung between us, I could not be indifferent to the reality of that.

She moved out shortly thereafter and began spending her days with Lockjaw. It was rumored that she took to peeking beneath the bonnets of babies in their carriages to see if they had ears. She was convinced, it was whispered, that people were breeding earless children, so unnecessary those appendages had become.

On the day Minnie left, people tell me that Lockjaw spoke to her. Customers in Meyer's store were struck still by the rusty, whirring sound of his voice. It was too low to hear, but it droned on and on and the people who could see Minnie's face said she sat there slack-jawed, listening. Apparently, though, he said something she didn't want to hear and when the 5:10 bus lumbered past, she jumped up from her chair, shouting, "Stop! Stop!"

The bus driver was not one of us. He heard her. He stopped the bus and it carried her away.

Love in the Fifties

by Colleen Sutherland

(This is a sort of prequel to the previous Love through the Decades stories. I wish it weren't based so much on my own life. CS)

Everyday it's a-gettin' closer
Goin' faster than a roller coaster
Love like yours will surely come my way
A-hey, a-hey-hey

Willard swung her around and headed for the back forty. He drove her across to the corner and made an abrupt left turn under the basketball hoop, shoving his dancing partner backwards as he drove full throttle around the gym floor. He was cutting hay, thinking about summer.

This is what dancing feels like in Alcenora High, Sheila thought. She read that Ginger Rogers did everything that Fred Astaire did, only in high heels and backwards. This was the same except Sheila was wearing tennis shoes and being pushed around the gym floor during seventh period physical education class by a farm boy with no sense of rhythm.

That morning, Sheila hoped for a snow day. A February blizzard swept across the Great Plains overnight and should have hit Alcenora, but instead it went south to Milwaukee. All Alcenora got was a dusting of snow, not enough to give her a break.

Oh, how she dreaded each day of high school. Junior year then a full senior year to go.

“God, I hate school,” she said to her mother as she wolfed down a piece of toast standing up. Her starched crinoline slip itched her legs when she sat down. By the end of the day her legs would be rubbed raw in the name of fashion. “Can't I be sick or something?”

“Don't take the name of the Lord in vain,” her mother said. “This should be the best time of your life. What is your problem?”

“If they would just leave me alone to study.”

“The boys?” Her mother was ever hopeful.

“No, the cheerleaders. They got it into their heads that every girl should go to the prom.”

“Well, why not?”

“I don't have a boyfriend.”

“Boys don't like smart girls. I've told you that over and over. It wouldn't hurt you to act dumb.”

Sheila didn't bother to answer. They had this conversation too many times. Her mother and father expected her to fit in with prevailing society. She was supposed to be a good little girl, have a good Lutheran boyfriend, get married and raise lots of good little farm kids after she had worked a few years as a good little secretary. They didn't know that she changed her class schedule to college prep courses every semester, faking their signatures. She stole blank report card forms from teachers' desks and filled them out herself, giving herself mostly B's in secretarial classes. She went down to the barn to have her father sign them because he never asked any questions. It made no difference that they smelled like manure when he was done because those weren't the ones she returned to the school anyhow. She was an expert at forging their names.

Every week she took the $1.25 her mother gave her for lunch money and put it together with any babysitting money into a secret bank account for college. She should be able to get scholarships to make up the rest. She haunted the guidance room during her meal-less lunch hour looking at the shelves of college brochures, hiding her selections in her locker so her mother wouldn't see them.

They would soon find out when she made the National Honor Society. That would be in the newspapers and they would get engraved invitations to the induction ceremony. Maybe she could convince them it was for her grades in in the business classes. She better make her report cards a little better next time. Neither of her parents had gone to high school so it had been so easy to fool them.

Would they be proud of her when she was valedictorian? Probably not, unless she had a boyfriend by then.

The music came to an end. Now she was supposed to make polite conversation with Willard. They both stared at the scoreboard which had the last basketball scores. Neither she nor Willard had been to the game. Apparently Alcenora won.

Mr. Orson, the overweight boys' physical education teacher put another Buddy Holly song on the turntable and yawned, leaning back on the office chair he had dragged into the gym. This was a day off for him. He let Miss Dorsey run the show, teaching the kids dance steps she learned by watching American Bandstand the night before. Most of the girls already knew the dances. Sheila didn't but with Willard as a partner it didn't make much difference.

If you knew Peggy Sue

Then you'd know why I feel blue

Without Peggy, my Peggy Su-u-ue

If only they would let her change partners, but none of the popular girls would have anything to do with

Willard. He grabbed her hand and waist and started pushing her backwards again. All around them couples were swinging to a rock 'n roll beat but Willard didn't know the difference between a waltz and a polka, let alone a modern dance.

“Aaaahhhh.” Sheila crashed into Yvonne when her Jack swung her out directly in the path of Willard's plowed row.

“Sorry,” Sheila said. Willard hadn't noticed. But Sheila wasn't sorry. If she had known Yvonne was back there she would have stomped on her foot for good measure.

Yvonne and her buddies cornered her when she got off the school bus that morning.

“Has Willard asked you to the prom yet?”

“I'm not going, I told you that.”

“Everyone has to go. This will be the best prom ever, you have to be there! It will be something to remember at our 50th reunion.”

“I'm not going to the reunion either.”

She wouldn't either. High school was something to endure until she got to college where she assumed there would be intelligent life. Once out of Alcenora, she was never coming back. She muttered through her French class vocabulary and thought about Paris.

Maybe she would go to her college reunions.

She watched Yvonne and Jack gyrating to the music. They were going steady and Yvonne thought they would be married soon after graduation. Or before. Jack had been overheard telling his friends that a piece of Saran Wrap and a rubberband made a good condom. Sheila knew Jack's father. He was fat. His mother sometimes showed up in the grocery store with bruises. Jack seemed to be heading in the same direction. A little weight was fine on a football star but it would stick. Sheila had seen him yelling at Yvonne when she didn't agree with something he said.

Sheila put her mind elsewhere, on the term paper on Marie Antoinette she was writing for her history class. She was back in the world of Versailles, of gold furniture and great art. The dresses were beautiful, she supposed, but they were the same bulky skirts girls wore in the Fifties. She wondered if Marie Antoinette had legs rubbed raw by starchy petticoats. She dreamed of the Hall of Mirrors as she and Willard did another round under the basketball hoops.

One of the other teachers was in the room talking to Miss Dorsey, whispering something in her ear.

“Noooooooo!” Yvonne overheard and began to wail. “Buddy Holly dead! No, no, no! It can't be true!”

Mr. Orson thought it was a request. He looked down at his stack of 45s and plucked one out but no one was dancing.

Well, that'll be the day
when you say good bye,
yes, that'll be the day,
when you make me cry,
ah, you say you're gonna leave,
you know its a lie,
'cause that'll be the day when i die.
well, when i die.

Buddy Holly was dead. Mr. Orson began to pull his records out of the stack. They wouldn't be played again this year. Sheila smiled. She abruptly turned away from Willard and headed toward her locker to take off her gym shoes.

“Badminton tomorrow,” Miss Dorsey called as the bell rang.