Mistaken Identity — Part 2

 “There’s something you should know,” Robert said on the phone that night.

“Yes?” Uh-oh, here it comes, Margo thought.

“Well, technically,” he began, “I’m married.” Before Margo could respond, he rushed on. “It’s been over for a long time. We just haven’t finalized it on paper …”

“I see,” Margo said, feeling a bit mean. “What does that have to do with me?”

There was a lot of hemming and hawing on Robert’s end. Good, Margo thought.

“It’s just that I thought … and maybe I’m out of line here,” he stammered, “but I thought you and I ...” He left it there. 

Margo sighed, feeling sorry for him.

“So, you’re married, but you’re separated and just haven’t gotten around to ...”

“No,” he interrupted, “not exactly separated ...”

“Not exactly?”

“I pretty much live in the top floor of the house and ...”

“You live together?!”

“More like coexist,” Robert said, then rushed on. “Ingrid and I can’t afford to live apart right now. She’s saving to go back to Norway and we’re working out the details of splitting property. We really have very little to do with each other. We eat dinner together, that’s all. Ingrid’s a wonderful cook.”

How nice for you,Margo thought, her stomach sinking.

“I just wanted you to know how things stand,” Robert said. “I wanted to be honest with you. Honesty is very important to me.”

Margo rallied. “I certainly appreciate that, Robert, so thank you,” she said. She had to get off the phone. “Oh, wow, look at that, it’s already after 9 here and I really should be getting home ...”

“You’re upset, I understand ...”

“No, no, not at all … it’s just late,” she lied.

“We’ll chat tomorrow then? During lunch maybe?”

“Sure, sure … well, let’s see how the day plays out. I really should get going, I have a long ride home. Good night, Robert.”

Margo didn’t stay on the line long enough to hear his reply. She put her head on the desk and closed her eyes. When she opened them she could see the horse sculpture out of the corner of her eye.

“Stupid horse,” she said. “Stupid me.”

*

Tired, out of sorts, Margo drove slowly in the snow to work the next day.

“Hold all my calls until further notice,” Margo barked at a surprised Carl when she got to the office. He raised his eyebrows as she stalked down the hall to her office, slamming the door behind her.

With the concentration and focus her ex-husband used to complain about (“Sometimes you don’t even know I’m alive!”), Margo worked, barely looking up from her computer the full day. She could hear the staff whispering on the other side of the door, but they didn’t disturb her. Lunch came and went. By 4 o’clock, she’d done all she could do. She’d laid out the next year’s editorial calendar, assigned stories to various freelancers, checked and rechecked every page of the upcoming issue; and it had been the perfect day to make normally unpleasant calls to suppliers. Exhausted, she rose and stretched and finally opened the door, taking a stack of correspondence to Carl to mail.

“Where is everyone?” she said, putting the pile on his desk. The place was eerily quiet.

“I sent them home before it got too bad out there,” Carl said, sniffing slightly.

“Out there …?” Margo looked outside. Everything was white and snowflakes the size of silver dollars smacked against the window. “Holy … I had no idea it was this bad,” she cried.

“There’s at least two feet already,” Carl said as he pulled on his coat, “and they’re expecting another two feet before midnight. Good thing tomorrow’s Saturday. I don’t have far to go, but maybe you should think about staying here tonight.”

Margo knew he was right, but she didn’t relish the idea. What would she do with herself?

“There’s some leftover pizza in the break room if you get hungry” Carl said, pausing at the door. “And Lindsay brought veggies and dip.”

“Okay, thanks, Carl,” Margo said. “Now get while the getting’s still good!”

Margo wished she had a beer or two to go with the pizza, but she warmed up some anyway and took it to her desk. The wind howled outside, making the empty office a little creepy. Margo shuddered and turned on her radio. Then, against her best judgment, she opened her chat program. A flurry of increasingly concerned messages from Robert cascaded in.

She read the first message to the last, feeling more and more guilty as she read. He really was very sweet. And he was upfront about being married. It wasn’t like they were romantically involved, not really. He was there, she was here. He was fun to talk to … quirky maybe, but he did make her laugh. As she pondered, another, new message pinged in.

Bo: I don’t know if you’ve read any of my messages, but I miss talking to you …

Margo wiped pizza grease off her hands and pulled the keyboard toward her.

Margo: I’m here. We can talk.

Bo: !!!! It’s so late and you’re still there??? I’m glad you are.

Margo: Snowed in. Have to spend the night. It’s kind of creepy.

Bo: Poor dear! Do you have food? Blankets?

Bo: Yep, all set there. Was just going to make up the pull-out bed.

Bo: Good, good. Look, I have to go for a bit, but do you think we could talk or chat later? We have all night …

Margo hesitated. It was pretty lonely there.

Margo: Sure, we can do that.

Bo: GREAT! So, I have a question …

Margo: Am I going to like this? :)

Bo: It’s ok, really! I was just wondering if you have a digital camera.

Margo: A … yeah, we have one here. Why?

Bo: I like to picture you and where you are, you know that.

Margo: Yeah …

Bo: So, maybe you could take a picture of your office and send it so it’s here when I come back?

And odd request, but what’s the harm, Margo thought.

Margo: Okay, I can do that.

Bo: Wonderful! And what are you wearing?

Margo knew better than to read anything into that question.

Margo: Right now, black slacks and a blue sweater. When you come back, though, it’ll be sweatpants and sweatshirt!

Bo: Good, good, relax. Have to go. Send that picture!

Margo: Will do. Bye.

Margo wondered if he and Ingrid were going to eat dinner. “Whatever,” she said aloud. She rummaged through her desk drawers and found the camera, actually looking forward to their chat. She’d have to take two shots, one of the desk side of the room, and the other of the sitting area where she’d be sleeping that night. After straightening things up a bit she took the pictures, loaded them into her computer, re-sized them and emailed them to Robert.

While she waited, she busied herself by making up the bed, going down the hall to brush her teeth and change into sweat clothes, checking out a few favorite Web sites and trying not to obsess about the weather outside. She waited. And waited. And waited.

I thought he said he’d be gone for ‘a bit’, Margo thought. She was getting tired and the made-up bed looked inviting. She surveyed the room, rather pleased with the environment she’d created – the comfortable couch and chair, the artwork on the walls, the kilim rug, her ancient, solid wood desk …

“Crap, oh, crap!” she cried. She quickly pulled up the pictures she’d sent to Robert. “Oh, crap! I can’t believe I did that!” There on the screen was the office side of the room. And there on her desk was the horse sculpture Robert so coveted. Her stomach roiled.

Margo: Robert? Did you get the pictures? There’s … She hoped he wasn’t back yet.

He suddenly popped online.

Bo: Yes, indeed I did.

Margo wondered if she should start explaining or just pretend nothing was amiss. He decided for her.

Bo: Lovely office you have there. Interesting décor.

Margo: Thanks. I’ll bet you’re wondering …

Bo: No, not wondering. Just amazed is all.

Margo: Amazed?

Bo: Yes, amazed that you lied, though I hardly know you, so I shouldn’t be.

Margo: Lied? I never lied! The statue was WILLED to me long after you wrote.

Bo: Oh. I see. Interesting.

Margo: It WAS!

Bo: And you kept that to yourself because …?

Margo: Because I didn’t know how you’d take it! The irony and all … a little hard to believe …

Bo: Indeed.

At this point, Margo was seething. Accusing her of lying! She didn’t owe this man any explanations! And he was being so damn condescending!

Margo: I don’t even LIKE the damn statue, but it was a dying woman’s WISH that I have it!

With that, she closed the chat program and shut down her computer, wishing fervently that she had a bottle of vodka to keep her company. It was going to be a long night.

*

It took hours for Margo to dig out her car the next day. When she got home late on Saturday, she fell into bed and slept 14 hours straight. By Monday, she had purged herself of anger and all other emotions towards Robert Bowen. She drove to the office with new vigor and cranked up an Aretha Franklin CD along the way. R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

But irony wasn’t done with her yet.

After Margo had had a lengthy phone conversation with the publisher, Carl knocked on her open door.

“There’s a woman holding on line two for you. I told her it could be a while, but she insisted she could wait.”

“And …?” Margo prompted.

“And her name is Ingrid. From Seattle.”

Margo suddenly knew what the phrase “her blood ran cold” meant.

“Ingrid? From Seattle?” she said stupidly. “Did she say what it was about?”

Something in her tone and face gave Carl pause. He actually looked embarrassed.

“Er … no, just that her name was Ingrid and she was calling from Seattle. Should I go back and ask?” he said, looking like it was the last thing he wanted to do.

“No, no, no,” Margo said, waving him away. Ingrid. Seattle. She needed to talk to Robert, and fast. Although she’d never called him before, she quickly found the number for the Little Museum on the Hill (Ingrid could wait), and with shaking hands, dialed the number.

“Little Museum on the Hill, Robert speaking.” Margo was surprised that he, the museum administrator would answer the phone.

“Robert, it’s Margo, don’t hang up,” she said in a rush. “We might have a situation. Ingrid called here. She’s on the other line right now.”

“What?! That’s not possible! She doesn't … Ingrid would never … are you certain?”

“All I know is that there’s a woman named Ingrid, from Seattle, who insisted on being put on hold while I was on another line. She’s waiting to talk to me. What did you tell her? Is this some sort of ambush?”

“Ambush! Calm down! Don’t take the call. I’ll run home and see what’s going on. Ingrid is an honorable woman, I’m sure this is a mistake.” He hung up.

Margo buzzed Carl’s desk. “Carl, please tell that Ingrid woman, if she’s still holding, that I’ve stepped out of the office and that I’ll call her back later. Get her number!”

“Right-o, Boss Lady.”

Margo sat with her head in her hands, waiting, her mind running wild. What kind of game was Robert playing? Was he trying to get even with her over the statue? What did Ingrid think she knew about them … them, there is no them,never was. Was he really going back home to confront her? He sounded surprised and upset. Maybe it wasn’t a game?

Carl buzzed her phone. “Two things,” he said. “That woman wouldn’t give me her number and said she’d call you back. And there’s a Robert Bowen on line two.”

Margo punched line two. “Robert? What’s happening?”

“As I surmised, nothing is happening. Ingrid knows nothing about this! She would never go behind my back in such a fashion. I suggest you quit making things up and leave me and my family alone!” He slammed down the phone.

Stunned, Margo replaced the receiver. What the hell was going on? She felt like Alice Through the Looking Glass.

Her phone buzzed again.

“It’s that Ingrid woman on line one,” Carl told her. Resigned, Margo picked up the phone.

“This is Margo,” she said.

“Margo, I caught you!” the heavily accented voice said.

“Er … caught me?”

“It’s Ingrid! From Heavenly Bodies in Seattle? We talked at the Great West Living Trade Show?”

Realization hit Margo in a flash. The trade show. That awful woman with the gaudy clothing and jewelry line trying to find a way to get into the magazine without advertising – this was not Robert’s Ingrid! Relief flooded over her.

“Ingrid, how nice to hear from you,” she said, meaning it. “What can I do for you?”

“I just knew you’d be excited to hear our latest news! Nefertiti, our newest line of fabulous fashions, has been bought up entirely by an Arabian prince! I’m certain your readers would love an exclusive pictorial ...”

Margo was shaking with laughter. She held her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece while the woman droned on. As soon as she could, she passed off the call to the managing editor and hung up, practically bursting with guffaws. Tears rolled down her face. Pretty soon, co-workers were poking their heads in the doorway to see what was going on. Margo shook her head and waved them away, unable to speak. How could she explain it anyway? She broke into a new round of laughter when she thought about sending a note to Robert to tell him what really happened. No, let him wonder. He wouldn't believe her anyway! It might be worth it, though, just to hear the righteous indignation. A new fit of giggles overcame her.

The horse sculpture caught her eye. She reached for it and held it up. “Gayle Clausen, wherever you are, I just want to thank you,” she said. “I’ll treasure this gift forever and it will forever remind me not to jump to conclusions.”

She replaced the statue tenderly on her desk.

“Carl!” she bellowed, “My office, now!”

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.