Thanksgiving

by Colleen Sutherland

You ask, how did I wind up here? Well sir, it all began with a turkey.

A year ago I announced to my seven children that I wanted to go to a restaurant to avoid the annual Thanksgiving dinner “At my age, I shouldn't have to put up with this.” I meant it. After 59 years of drunkenness, abuse and infidelity, my husband was finally gone. I wanted quiet and time for myself in my remaining years.

Then in mid-November, I got the call from the local television station to congratulate me. I had won a 25 pound turkey.

“I didn't enter any contest,” I told Ruth, my eldest.

“Oh we all entered your name for you,” she explained. “We figured this year you wouldn't have to pay for it and we could have Thanksgiving at your house after all.”

“It didn't have anything to do with the cost! I didn't want to do Thanksgiving ever again!”

“Too late. All the travel plans have been made. Lois and her family are flying in from Idaho. Paul is driving overnight from Minneapolis. We'll be there as usual. But don't worry about it, you make the turkey and we'll bring the rest.”

And so there I was at 5:00 on Thanksgiving morning, a seventy nine year old woman preparing a 25 pound bird. I waited for one of the children or grandchildren to come to help, but they never did. I wound up cramming it into the oven on my own. I felt my muscles tear. I would have to schedule a trip to the chiropractor.

They began to arrive at 11:30. The first was Ruth who came in with a pumpkin pie. She was followed by Mary-Margaret with another pumpkin pie.

With forethought because I knew my children, I had bags of potatoes, a freezer full of vegetables and cranberry relish. I set to work. “Mary-Margaret,” I said, “would you peel the potatoes?”

“That's not done already?” She started peeling and got through a dozen before she whined Esther into taking over by claiming arthritis. What did she think her mother had? Esther set down her pumpkin pie and grabbed a knife.

“Dull,” she said and went off to find one of the husbands to get it sharpened. She never made it back to the kitchen. I picked up another of the two dozen knives in the drawer and started peeling.

Paul came in then with his new wife Sunshine and her two teenage daughters. “Look what I made?” Sunshine said as she showed off her effort: a pumpkin pie that wasn't quite cooked in the middle. “Allyson will be along in a few minutes. She's baking something.” Allyson is Paul's first wife and she was likely to bring at least one of their three grown up boys and their children.

“I thought I should invite her,” Paul said, “so the children could have a nice family Thanksgiving.” The two girls, whose names I forget, immediately went to join all the other teenagers in the living room to compare piercings and tattoos. Then they took out their cellphones to text God knows who.

Allyson and Sunshine began their usual sniping starting with criticizing each other's pies and moving on to his faults. I learned more about Paul's character than I wanted to know. He certainly takes after his father.

Soon the house was a jumble of seven children, twenty-three grandchildren and God knows how many great-grandchildren and pumpkin pies.

The house was in an uproar except for in the kitchen where I worked on the meal. The potato peeling was finally done. From time to time, one of my offspring whose name I couldn't remember, came in to say, “Grandma, you shouldn't be working today! Go in the living room and sit down on the recliner!” Then he wandered back out of the kitchen before I could ask for help.

The generations were exploring the house, remarking on all it contained until one of them, I think it was Lois, said they should start marking their favorite pieces of furniture, antiques, or collectibles, “in case something happens to Mom, I brought some stick on tags.” That started a rush with people taping tags on everything. Lois was an antique dealer so she was quick to get the best pieces, but her tags were ripped off and replaced with others. The house was beginning to look like an estate sale with white tags everywhere, except estate sales don't usually include shrieking women.

I was still in the kitchen wondering why on earth I had so many children. It was because my husband liked babies, I remembered, though he never had much to do with them.

“Have the children,” Father Pete said when I was in the confessional. “It's your duty as a woman to be a good Catholic mother.” All my daydreams of some other career disappeared as the children arrived. So did my husband, whose name I make an effort to forget. After Titus was born, I was on my own. We never divorced though. That was against church teaching. My husband came home for the holidays, wedding anniversaries, and a fling in the bedroom. Contraceptives were not allowed, of course.

We pretended we were one happy family for the children. But he was dead now. I had to pay for the funeral but at least that way I knew he was dead. He's buried over at the graveyard next to St. Andrew's. There's a plot for me next to him. I don't suppose it will be used. Maybe one of the kids will want it.

The Thanksgiving fiasco continued. More grandchildren arrived, this time with their “significant others”, sometimes spouses, sometimes dates, sometimes someone they met the night before. There were great-grandchildren, too. The hallways were filled with portable cribs, though none of those babies ever slept that I could tell. One of the third generation, I forget who, volunteered to set the table. I looked at her blankly. Table? I didn't have enough tables for this crew. It was going to be a buffet, I said.

They pulled me out of the kitchen once for a family portrait. They put the photo on a computer screen for me to look at but it looked like an angry mob ready to storm the White House. By then they were arguing about politics.

“Here, Mom,” Ruth said and shoved a hat at me. “We decided to draw names for Christmas presents this year. There's just too many of us to shop for.”

I drew a slip of paper and put it in the pocket of my apron.

In the end, I got the meal laid out in the kitchen. It was light on salad, stuffing, vegetables, buns, and relishes, but it was the best I could manage. I rang the dinner bell. Then all those people finally remembered where the kitchen was and came trooping in to grab what they could. As a good Catholic woman, I bowed my head for a dinner prayer, the one Father Pete had given me years ago. When I turned they were fighting over choice bits of turkey. They complained about the stuffing which didn't have mushrooms but did have giblets. Wild rice would have been better, I was told by someone, I forget who.

One mother, I forget which one, reached into the freezer to find some hotdogs to microwave for a fussy eater. That started cupboard and refrigerator raids with the grandchildren in tow to find out what they could possibly be nourished with.

I wondered about some of those children. There were rumors that a couple of them were illegitimate. However, they all had nasty tempers so I figured that they had the genes of my long gone husband floating through their bodies. Even that oriental kid, whose name I don't remember.

They took their plates out to other parts of the house, fruit punch sloshing all over. The men, however, had brought their contributions, cases of beer. They pulled folding chairs in front of the television to catch the first football game of the day. All except for the eldest grandson whose name I forget who took the recliner.

Most of the grandchildren were either texting friends on their cell phones or playing computer games.

I went to my bedroom with a headache but my bed was already taken by a teenage grandson and his girlfriend breaking one of the commandments. I closed my eyes and thought about Pastor Pete who always counseled patience. I told them to get out and go to confession on Sunday.

“I'm a Unitarian,” the boy told me.

I took a short nap, trying not to think about the wet spot on the bedspread.

I woke up two hours later to the sound of glass breaking in the living room. The game had heated up and so were the men who were rooting for opposing teams, I gathered.

“Where did the women go?” I asked, hoping they were in the kitchen cleaning, but no, it was quiet in there.

“I think they went Christmas shopping,” a grandchild, I forget who, volunteered. “Early holiday shopping this year.”

“Christmas shopping,” I corrected him. Father Pete said “holiday shopping” was part of the war on Christmas.

It was then I remembered I hadn't had anything to eat. There were dishes and glasses all over the house except for the kitchen where all the dirty pots and pans remained unwashed, but not a scrap to eat except for the undercooked pumpkin pie. I threw on my jacket and went down the street to St. Andrews to see if the Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless was still being served. There was a little stuffing and a couple of turkey wings and more pumpkin pie. I ate enough to keep going, helped with the dishes, and went home to get to work.

By the time the women returned with the cars laden with packages, their husbands and significant others were snoring on couches and the floor and the kitchen was clean. I was sitting on the swing on the front porch in my old jacket drinking out of a bottle and anxiously watching the falling snow. In a big snowstorm, some of them might stay over.

“Mom,” Mary-Margaret said, “You don't drink!”

“I've just taken it up,” I said. “It's one thing the church doesn't forbid.”

As they gathered their families together to leave, Mary-Margaret told me the latest gossip. Father Pete had retired because the church finally discovered what he had been up to all those years. He and his housekeeper had retired to Florida for the sun and to hide from the cops.

When the last of them were gone, even the sleeping nude teenagers in the spare room (maybe the same two who had been in my bedroom earlier) I sat down in the living room. I would call the carpet cleaners the next week. I took my apron off then remembered the slip of paper. I drew it from the pocket and looked at the name. Who was that? Then I remembered that it was my name. I had drawn my own name. No Christmas shopping at all for me. How nice! But maybe there should be. Right then I decided I would give myself a present.

And that is why I am sitting here on the deck of the Queen Victoria, watching the sun set over the Atlantic on my six month 'round the world cruise. By the time I get back, my house will have gone to auction along with all the contents. There will not be a scrap left for the children to fight over, not a single antique or collectible.

When I get back, I will live in a studio apartment in a state where I have absolutely no relatives. I haven't figured that one out yet since they seem to be everywhere but it won't make much difference since I plan on having a post office box for mail.

Before I left, I had my will re-drawn. Everything goes to Planned Parenthood.

Yes, it all began with a turkey.

The Balanced Approach

Photo by Nilfanion via Wikimedia Commons

Author's Note: This story features a paranormal lawman, a talking knife, and is rated M for "Mature." For other stories featuring these characters, check out Carne Fresco right here on the blog.

If you go to a certain parking garage and enter the elevator, you will find yourself selecting between four buttons set into a sheet of scratched stainless steel. The panel is crooked, letting the lights behind the buttons seep out and destroy the illusion that technology is somehow elegant and flawless. You notice the magical light behind the panel is just a cheap light bulb with dusty wires looped around a plastic clip. You wonder if it’s even a good idea to be in an elevator to begin with, to trust your life to something so simple and easily broken. Shouldn’t it have computer chips or something? How old is it? Maybe you should leave it alone and use the stairs instead. That’s the safe choice, the one most people choose.

The idiots seem to believe that something as old as this elevator must be good for one more trip, and punch their floor. Death spares them once more, and the elevator delivers them without incident. They alight, mentally congratulating themselves for being so brave. At least that’s what I think goes on in their heads. Either way, all that matters is that no one lingers in this elevator for long.

When the doors close, I insert a key in the fireman’s slot, and punch out a pattern on the buttons. The elevator goes down four floors farther than it should. When the doors open, I’m greeted by three hundred and seventy pounds of muscle, fur, and teeth dressed in jeans and a Black Sabbath concert shirt.

“ ‘Lo, Angus,” says Tusk, putting down a book, “What the hell happened to your face?” 

Old joke, wasn’t even that funny the first time. Still, some forms must be observed.

“Nothing, why?”

“You were born looking like that? Sheeeit.” he says, shaking his head.

I look at the cover of his book.

“Tusk, is that fucking Pride and Prejudice? First time I've seen you with a book that didn’t have Elmo on the cover.”

“Get bent.”

“Get a haircut.”

He smiles and jerks his head down the hallway. Balance laughs in its sheath, vibrating against my back.

The Judicar’s hall looks like it was decorated by an overzealous clockmaker who experimented with art deco. Streamlined figures in exaggerated poses over brass and silver gears line the walls, floor and ceiling. Someone once told me that it was supposed to represent the special place Man held in the pact between the Light and Dark courts. I call bullshit on that. Man regulates the balance because neither Light nor Dark can be bothered or trusted to offer up its own citizens to see the pact enforced. I figure it's more likely someone on the appropriations committee was getting kickbacks on the materials.

Naturally, there is a Dark and Light side to the Judicar's hall and guess which side I'm visiting? I wrinkle my nose at the smells of sulfur, grave soil, and wet dog as I make my way through the crowds of imps, litchkin, and weir, feeling the stares on my back as I pass. Some wonder if they can take me, others ignore me, and at least one stares at me like someone who wants to buy a pit bull. The litchkin follows me with red eyes, calculating my potential to help or hurt its plans. Last time I checked, I wasn’t worth the effort. Bishops from both sides make sure hunters like me are as worthless as possible. When I glance over my shoulder, the litchkin is gone.

I come up to a door with a worn knocker that looks vaguely like a horseshoe made of black iron. I reach into my jacket with one hand and open the door with the other. A guy in a bow tie and long-tailed coat rises from a stool with a look on his face like I just pissed on the floor.

“Sir, the Bishop’s office is closed today. I must insist –” He stops as I pull Balance and send it flying in his direction. He yelps, and then looks up to find the collar of his jacket pinned to the wall.

“Buddy, he ain’t in the mood,” Balance says. “If you’d be good enough to announce us to the bishop, maybe he’ll take me with him."

The guy must be new, because he reaches up to take hold of Balance by the hilt. There’s a bright arc and he screams again, holding his fingers.

“Yeah, just try that again, meatbag," says Balance.

I walk past them, through a door opening into a kind of sitting room with paintings along one wall, and leather-bound books in floor-to-ceiling shelves on the other. At the far end is a set of lacquered doors which are opening. The Bishop comes out, a black haired, mustached man in a starched shirt, pinstriped pants, and suspenders. He carries his pistol in his right hand, sighted on my forehead.

“Angus.” He doesn’t lower the gun.

“Martin.” I nod

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I'm hunting a carnal named Cree. I’m here to inform his bishop.”

“I stand so informed. What does this have to do with breaking into my office and assaulting my staff?”

I look back over my shoulder at the doorman whose eyes are nearly all white staring at Balance. The knife is talking about something I can’t make out.

“I need Cree's whereabouts. I assume your office has his registration record.”

“Come back later, when I’m open.”

I shake my head. “If I had that kind of time, I wouldn’t be here right now. Give me the registry, and I’ll leave.”

Martin grits his jaw. “If you were under my jurisdiction, Angus ...”

“Well I ain’t. You gonna give me what I want, or do I have to get the Judicar involved?”

Martin swears and holsters his gun. Dark Collars can’t interfere with a hunt without a reason a damn sight better than professional angst. He knows it, and he knows that I know he knows it. “Kenneth will see to your request as soon as you remove your pig sticker from my wall. Will there be anything else?”

“Yeah,” I say. “One of your uniforms tried to arrest me and a petitioner right after the hunt was called.”

“How do you know the officer was one of mine?”

“He didn’t check in with an elder first. Your people always show initiative.”

Martin’s lip twitched, almost a smile.

“Did you identify yourself to my officer?”

“Yeah, but his mundane partner already had gotten the idea to take us in. Your guys are supposed to make sure I can do my fucking job.”

Martin’s face flushed. “My officers have a hard enough time keeping the veil maintained, without witch hunters and shamen performing rituals in goddamn public spaces. Maybe Ishould see the Judicar about its agents flaunting the codes and jeopardizing the veil in a diner."

The slimy motherfucker. Never worries about the law until it serves his purposes. “You go right ahead, Martin. Make sure you don’t leave out the part where you participated in obstruction.”

“Obstruction? You’ve got some nerve.”

I hold up my fingers. “One, I never said anything about a diner, or a shaman. Two, if your man can’t recognize a hunter or a Calling he shouldn’t be on the force. Three, he saw my evidence and probably figured out it was heavy shit, or he wouldn’t have called you so soon.” Martin’s face goes from red to white. “You knew I was coming down here, and your door man tries to stop me? It’s enough for a formal review.”

Nothing deflates a bullshitter like getting caught in a lie. They then either have to give ground, or double down. Martin ain’t the betting type. “Get your information and leave,” he says with a tight voice. “One of these days, you’re going to take a wrong step, and I’ll be there to bring you to heel.”

“You’ll have to wait in line.” I say and turn my back. I walk over to the doorman. He’s got a look on his face like he wants to puke.

“... of course, it’s the lower intestine that’s really the messy part,” says Balance.

I yank it out of the wall, and snap my arm out to catch Kenneth before he hits the floor. He scrambles to his feet, takes a deep breath and looks me in the face.

“May I help you, sir?” he says. Say what you will about the Dark, but they are disciplined.

“Registry for Danny Cree”

Two minutes later, I’m walking out. Balance is still bitching.

“A couple of more minutes and I’d have had him heaving on the floor,” it says.

“If I had known you’d be like this, I would have used the gun instead,” I mutter.

Popper

By Bettyann Moore

“I think I’m brain-dead,” Porpoise McAllister muttered.

On the picnic table before him, 150 Ways to Play Solitaire lay open to Osmosis, the 29^th game Porpoise was trying to learn that morning. He wasn’t having much luck. It had been his mother’s idea to come here; he would have much preferred the cool dankness of his basement retreat to the noise and sunshine of the town’s only park. He would have even preferred working on the farm, but he was supposed to be studying for his SATs and his father had declared the month of July “farm-free,” at least for Porpoise.

“Just look at yourself, Leslie!” his mother had cried. “You’re as white as a ghost!”

She had surprised him, sneaking down the basement steps with that look of disgust on her face that said “I should have turned this space into a rumpus room.” He was just thankful that he had finally gotten around to filing away his collection of magazines – alphabetized under various fantasies – and that he hadn’t been in the throes of passionate reading when she had descended upon him.

 

“Don’t you have some friends to play with?” she asked, obviously mistaking him for a 5-year-old. “Whatever happened to that nice boy … what was his name? Oh, Lionel, Lionel Hill, that’s it! From that nice Hill family up on Summit Hill … the Hills on the hill!” she said, laughing at her own little joke.

She babbled on about the Hill family while Porpoise thought back to the last time he “played” with Lionel, known to one and all (except by his mother, apparently) as Crusher. Crusher Hill liked to crush whatever he could get his hands on – lunch bags (or boxes, it didn’t matter), small birds and rodents, people’s heads. Porpoise was painfully familiar with that last one. He didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that that “nice boy” had been expelled and sent to a reform school for crushing the life out of the science teacher’s white lab mice.

For no other reason than to get her off his back, he agreed to go to the park for “fresh air and sunshine” – she was always speaking in clichés – and hastily snatched up his cards and the solitaire book his father, a realist, had given him for his birthday.

“Damn,” he said for the tenth time as a small July breeze played with the pages of his book and sent cards flying off the table. “I shoulda brought one of my magazines with me instead of these stupid cards.” He’d never read that stuff outside of his basement room before. The idea excited him and he toyed with the thought as he knelt on the grass to pick up the scattered cards.

“Is this your card?” The voice cut into his daydream and startled him.

“What?” He looked up, but saw only a silhouette back-lit by the bright sun.

“I said, is this your card? It came sailing into my lap while I was reading by that tree over there.”

The figure stepped closer and pointed. The hand was definitely feminine, but the fingernails were chewed down below the skin line. The arm was skinny and almost as pale as his own, dotted here and there by defiant freckles. The shoulders … Good God, Porpoise thought, she has on one of those skimpy halter tops. He stood and forced his eyes to the face, not trusting their reaction to a haltered chest. They’d probably embarrass him by popping out of his skull.

The face was homely and familiar, the freckles almost scarlet against milk-white skin. The dark green eyes were set wide apart, the bridge flat between them. The short nose came to a surprising conclusion, tipped with what looked like a small, red ball. Behind chapped lips were tiny white teeth that Porpoise now realized were grinning at him.

He flushed red beneath his sallow exterior. “We … uh …,” he stammered.

“Freaky, isn’t it?” The face spoke. “If I didn’t know better I’d say we were twins. The only thing different is the nose – mine’s sunburned.”

“Freaky isn’t the word for it.” Porpoise finally found his voice. “I thought I was looking into the mirror my mother’s always poking into my face to show me how washed out I look.”

Porpoise stepped back and took in the total picture. His eyes didn’t dwell on the halter top – she was as flat-chested as he was. From the top of her slightly greasy brown hair, down to the bowed legs and large feet, she looked like what he’d imagined himself to look like in drag.

“What’s your name?”

Porpoise flushed again, realizing he had been staring hard at the vision before him. “Uh, Porpoise, Porpoise McAllister.”

The mouth that wasn’t his laughed.

“Porpoise? What kind of name is that? Are your parents freaky on sea life or something?”

“No, my grandfather hung it on me because I could swim before I was two. It’s really Leslie, at least that’s what my ma calls me. What’s yours?”

“Popper Cooper.”

It was Porpoise’s turn to laugh. “Popper Cooper! Sounds like a baseball player. Were you born at a ball game or something?”

“Nah, it’s actually Penelope. My big brother started calling me Popper while I was in junior high because he said it looked like I was always waiting for my chest to pop out.” She looked down, unembarrassed. “As you can see, I’m still waiting.”

Porpoise blushed again.

“Anyway,” Popper went on, “the name stuck and I figured anything’s better than Penelope.”

Porpoise kind of liked the name Penelope, but Popper suited her. He sat heavily upon the picnic bench and Popper did likewise.

“Queen of hearts,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s the queen of hearts that blew over to me. Here, you didn’t take it back yet.” She handed over the card.

“Thanks.”

“It’s nothing. Hey, what are you playing there?”

“Uh, some dumb game called Osmosis. I can’t get the hang of it.”

“Treasure Trove.”

“What?”

“It’s also called Treasure Trove and you’ve got ‘em set up all wrong. See, you need four cards in the column, not six.”

“You know the game?”

“Cripes, I just said so, didn’t I?”

Porpoise failed at willing his face not to blush.

“Anyway, if you want, I can teach it to you. I know that book inside out.”

She sat close beside him and though he squirmed on the hard bench, it wasn’t because he felt uneasy being so near her. When they touched – a leg, an elbow – a spark of her energy seemed to leap out at him. He found that, so linked, his thoughts cleared and his grasp of the game improved. Osmosis wasn’t so hard after all.

“See, Osmosis isn’t so difficult with the right person to teach you,” she said, seeming to read his mind. He searched her eyes for some clue to her power, but found only his own face staring back at him.

It was the longest time Porpoise had spent in the company of someone his own age since he and Lizzie Osterman used to play house together – he was always the mommy – and it really wasn’t like being with a stranger. Popper was so much like him it was almost like playing solitaire by himself.

He smiled as he thought about what he’d say to him mom when he got home. “I didn’t do nothin’, Ma, just played two-handed solitaire with myself.”

Popper smiled, too. “Thinking about what you’re going to tell your mom?” she asked, climbing into his brain again. “I doubt anyone would really get it.”

He looked at Popper and this time didn’t blush. “No one could,” he replied.

“You got that right. Listen, I gotta go. I haven’t been out this long in years. You think your mom will make you come here again tomorrow?”

“She won’t have to.”

“I know. See you tomorrow then. Bring something to read, will ya?”

Years later, whenever someone asked Porpoise how he and Popper got together, he’d laugh and say, “Through Osmosis.”

Christmas Spirit

“Bill! Get those pumpkins off the porch and take down the orange lights.” It was November First and Beatrice was ready.

Bill had promised to love Beatrice until death did them part but he thought he should have inserted an exclusionary clause exempting him from Christmas and the months preceding. But there was nothing he could do about it after forty years. He had his marching orders.

He packed the plastic pumpkins and orange lights into boxes and drove his pickup over to their double storage unit to pick up Christmas. The boxes and bins he loaded up were marked numbers from 1 to 40. Nos. 1 through 25 had to be delivered to the spare bedroom for Beatrice to sort through. For the two months, forget about the calendar. It was Christmas.

His next assignment was to open the first box which held the big inflatable turkey beside the house. It was a mere sop, a side show to the spectacle that was about to follow. Beatrice had given up on Thanksgiving which is more about food than decor. That last Thursday in November, they always took their sons out to the Country Buffet until they married. Her daughters- in-law rebelled and took over the feast in their own homes. None of them felt there was any point in going to Bill and Beatrice's house at all until until Christmas. That was fine with Bernice. Her eyes were set on bigger things.

By the second day in November, Bill was on a ladder putting up the exterior lights. There were the icicle lights that dropped from the eaves. There were the strands of big bulbs that had to be wound around the nine spruces. Each year the trees got taller. In another year he would have hire a cherry picker to wind them to the top where the golden stars waited. As long as he was up there he hung the giant ball ornaments Beatrice collected each year at the citywide rummage sales. As it grew darker, Bill set up the dozen small pre-lit trees that lined the driveway. It was only day two and he was exhausted and wishing he only had twelve days of Christmas to contend with.

Bill didn't mind the outside work in November because he knew that inside their little frame house, Beatrice was busy. There would be a tree in every room, sometimes, two. He would have preferred to go cut one live tree in mid-December but by then she would have all the interior decorating done and moving a tree through the house would be impossible. The trees had to be up before she could put the rest out. So up went the fiber optic trees, the pink aluminum trees, the white trees, the blue trees and to be traditional, one large vinyl green tree. Bill had to have them lit and assembled by November 7. As he worked there would Christmas music on the stereo. For two months he would be listening to Christmas carols. He and Beatrice never went to church but they listened to every religious anthem ever written including some dreadful Country Western albums she found at a garage sale. She had even found a Christmas polka CD.

Beatrice claimed none of it cost that much because almost everything she bought she found at thrift shops, rummage and estate sales or e-bay.

“I got it all for pennies,” she told her friends. All the same, Bill wouldn't let Beatrice light the trees until December 1. He hid the extension cords at the back of the storage unit and claimed he was looking for them. The January energy bill was always a horror.

By the end of the second week, all the trees were in place and decorated, so now Beatrice could put up the train that circled all around the biggest tree, through the dining room, on to the kitchen and downstairs bedroom. The train kept chugging along even going through the master bathroom so the door had to be kept ajar. Bill had to take a climb upstairs when he wanted to take a whizz. It was just as well because there was a tree in the downstairs bathtub. Beatrice talked about another in the upstairs shower but he put his foot down on that one.

Bill sometimes took a seasonal job to get away from it all, but even in the stores, the Christmas music was on all the time and decorations everywhere. He wished he had never retired.

When the trains were operational, with repairs going on all season, it was time for the miniature villages with houses that Beatrice had been collecting for years. The houses never matched so the villages looked a bit odd, as if some of the smaller homes belong to elves. No matter, each little domicile had to be taken out of the crates, oohed and aahed over by Beatrice, checked to see that it's lights were still working, and placed along the train track.

It wasn't the only interior lighting. By the third week, Bill had to haul in the fake fireplace that was stored in the basement. Above it Beatrice arranged a garland wound with the lights made out of shotgun shells. Winding upward on the railing leading to the upstairs there were pink flamingo lights. At the top and bottom of the step were giant flamingos wearing Christmas hats and wreaths around their necks, a nice finishing touch Beatrice thought. It is always good to keep a theme going.

By November 20, it was time to bring out the rest of the decorations. There were garlands draped over every room, real garlands purchased from the grandsons in Boy Scouts because Beatrice liked the pine scent. She brought out folding tables for every corner and covered them with seasonal table clothes in red and green to hold her collectibles.

It wasn't even that there was so much stuff, Bill thought, it was that it was so tacky. In the living room, it was a Santa motif. She had Santas of every kind. There were traditional Father Christmases she found on a trip to Europe. There were Santas in various colors. To be politically correct there were African-American Santas, Asian Santas, Hispanic Santas, and Native-American Santas. To show that she had a sense of humor, there was a Santa smoking and drinking beer. Santa sitting in an outhouse reading the Naughty & Nice List. Some of the Santas were motion activated. One began to dance to Jingle Bells when anyone walked by. One Santa swore. Another belched and yelled insults. If Bill went through the living room too fast they all activated at once.

The entryway theme was Star Wars Christmas: Yoda dressed as Santa, Darth Vader with a light saber that flashed red and green, the Millennium Falcon flying overhead. Beatrice thought the entry needed more work.

On Thanksgiving Day, it was time to finish outside, save for the two hours Bernice set aside to join her family dinner. No time for football with the boys for Bill. They stopped at the storage unit for the last bins and boxes, number 26 to 40.

For the enjoyment of passersby, there were plastic snowmen, candy canes, twirly trees, candles, Santa Clauses, penguins, polar bears, toy soldiers, white plywood deer and wire deer with white bulbs. Many of these things were wearing out and fading but they still had to go up. Big inflated decorations lay flat on the ground during the day, like colored pools, all Disney characters, some on motorcycles. The inflated turkey remained. Bill didn't see putting it away since it kind of blended in with everything else. By November 30, with a whoosh they were up and glowing.

Because Beatrice thought she ought to have at least one, in the middle of it all there was a life sized creche with everything from the Holy Family to camels. When Bill couldn't find the cradle, he put Baby Jesus in a Bud Light box and moved some sheep in front of it. Just temporary he said but moved on to other things. It was just as well, because the Baby Jesus was also motion activated. When anyone went by, the baby waved its arms and let out a big fart. With everything else going on, nobody passing by could figure out where it came from. Their attention was more often drawn to the big druid priest performing a human sacrifice that Bill constructed out of plywood. “To cover all the bases,” he told Beatrice. The city told him to take it down but he said there was such a thing as freedom of religion. To placate the city fathers, he put up a lit up America flag and a couple of soldiers with guns to show how patriotic they were. That was the end of the exterior display. They had run out of lawn.

The neighbors on either side complained. On the east side, the neighbors couldn't sleep because of all the lights until they installed heavy duty drapes. They asked Bill to pay for them and he quietly wrote out a check. On the west, the fundamentalists felt Beatrice and Bill didn't know “the real reason for the season” but then they never even had a Christmas tree. “No Christmas spirit whatsoever,” Beatrice said.

Finally on December 1, Beatrice could display out all the waxed figurines she saved from year to year. No one ever lit choir boy candles, Christmas tree candles, angel candles, or any of the shaped candles . Bill never saw the point. But Beatrice did like candlelight so bought bags of tea lights and lit them in their special containers the minute it got dark.

The tall candles in the wall sconces and candelabras wouldn't be lit until Christmas Eve. The big matches were ready.

There was a point to it all, of course. Beatrice wanted their house to be featured in the annual library Christmas walk. Surely this would be the year. She invited the head librarian for tea to let her look at all the glory. The librarian gasped in amazement as she went through the house but she said the houses had already been selected. “Maybe next year.”

Every so often circuits blew. Bill considered someone to re-wire the old house but could they really afford it? You couldn't get electricians from e-bay or rummage sales. He kept extra fuses on the ready.

The only people who actually got to see the wonder Bernice created were her and Bill. The daughters-in-law refused to come for Christmas Eve. There was simply too much for the grandchildren to get into. Besides, there were all those candles. The toddlers were drawn to fire. They all settled on a two hour visit on Christmas Day. If anything got broken then, well, Bill would have the whole next year to fix it.

It was just as well because an ice storm arrived on Christmas Eve day, making the roads slippery and covering the yard in silver. But that was perfect because the ice covered the ornaments making them glow. “Perfect for luminaries,” Beatrice cried. “ She scrounged in the cupboard for brown paper bags. Teetering on the ice, she set the bags through the lawn and lit a tea light in each one.

She fell once but refused to move until she could see it all. She sat on the sidewalk, a light snow was falling all around her.

“Oh Bill, isn't it glorious!”

She crawled back inside, just as the snowfall turned into a blizzard with strong winds. She watched as an inflated Mickey Mouse on a motorcycle cut loose and flipped over a luminary which tipped over, and burst into flames. It hit the Bud Light box. Baby Jesus went up in flames, farting all the while. The fire hit the Holy Family's extension cord. The fuses blew, throwing the property in darkness. Beatrice ran for matches and began to light every candle in the house while Bill called 9-1-1. One scone was too close to a garland that had gone dry. The garland took off up the walls to the ceiling which was hung with paper snowflakes.

Beatrice and Bill escaped and spent the night in a motel while the fire department fought the conflagration. In the end the house and all its decorations were gone.

It wasn't all bad, Bill figured. He could close the storage unit and insurance would cover the cost.

“Let's get a smaller house next time,” Bill said. “Or maybe we could live in an apartment. It's time to down-size.”

For the time being, that's what they had to do. By January 2 their mail was delivered to their new apartment The first thing they got were two Christmas catalogs. “If we start now, we could be in a new house and ready for the Christmas walk,” Beatrice said.

Bill threatened her with divorce.

She went on Facebook to report that her husband was waging a war on Christmas. She had heard all about it on television and here it was happening her own family.

“I don't know what happened to his Christmas spirit,” she said.

Dinner and a Photo

Photo by Paparazzimalaya 

Morgan didn't really believe in karma, but taking an Eastern interpretation of Pascal's wager, he decided it couldn't hurt to act as if there was a grand accounting at the end of life. He also believed the little things added up more so than grand gestures. When the opportunity arose, he held doors open for others, pushed all the loose shopping carts together in parking lot corrals, and slowed down for yellow lights. It was when he volunteered for Meals on Wheels that his flirting with karmic justice turned serious. He must have made a bad impression during the interview, because they assigned him to Roger.

Morgan shifted the insulated bag to one arm and knocked on Roger's door. The old man took his sweet time answering and even longer unlatching the door. Though Roger always seemed appreciative, his eyes bored through Morgan the entire visit. Morgan imagined Roger's mahogany face on the shoulders of whatever creature was to judge him in the afterlife, the same eyes seeing straight through a cynical attempt to lead a virtuous life.

Roger's apartment was filled with pictures of women. Women of all ages, races, and situations. A black woman, eyes closed, smelling a bouquet of daisies. A white woman in torn jeans and football jersey holding a fishing pole. A woman in a red headscarf flashing a peace sign in front of a polar bear exhibit. Some wrinkled, some smooth skinned, happy women, sad women, women in motion, women taking their ease, pictures scattered across all the flat surfaces of his apartment, dotting the walls in an eclectic collection of frames. Pick any picture, and Roger would tell you the woman's name.

"Do you want me to get a plate down for you?" Morgan said.

"Nah. I'm elderly, not old. I can get my own dishes."

"Fine, Roger."

"You now, you're twenty-and-some but you're an old man. I can tell."

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"

Roger spread his hands. "You tell me."

Morgan tried to respond, but no words came. Roger shrugged and went to the cupboard.

“What have you brought me today, Old Man?” Roger said, setting a plate at the table.

“Italian night tonight,” Morgan said. He peeled the foil lid from the lasagna tray and shook out the garlic bread onto Roger's plate

“Is it kosher?”

“Since when have you ever been Jewish?”

“I dated a Jewish girl once.”

“I'm not surprised. How did it turn out?”

“Two times we stepped out, then I went searching again.”

That was about average, Morgan had learned. As far as he knew, Roger's longest relationship had been five dates. “Learn anything from that one?”

“I always ordered the kosher meal on airplanes. It may not have tasted any better, but it was always a lot more interesting.”

"Where's her picture?"

Roger waved his hand. "Somewhere around here. You don't need to see it."

"You want parmesan cheese on this?" Morgan asked.

"Is it the kind from a can or from a piece of actual cheese?"

Morgan held up a white packet and shook it. "Says it's the real stuff on the package."

"Forget it, Old Man," Roger said. "That's the stuff they sweep off the floor after they've squeezed all that orange crap into the spray cheese cans."

"You don't really think that?"

"I have it on good authority. Dated a farmer once."

"How long that last?"

"Just once. The girl clicked the wrong profile on Agricultural Amour.com when she made the date. Boy, was she ticked when I showed up."

"I didn't know you were ever a farmer."

"Raised a catfish in a five-gallon bucket once, then sold it at a farmer's market. I figured that would count."

Morgan looked over the pictures and pointed at the woman smelling the bouquet. "What about her?"

"Three dates, though I could tell nothing would ever happen after the first."

"How's that?"

"I'm from Botswana, she was from Philly. I think she wasn't ready to expand her horizons more any further than Baltimore."

"Was she a farmer too?"

"Nah, different site. AfroScene.com or something like that."

"How many dating sites have you used?"

Roger looked around his apartment at all the pictures and shrugged. "I haven't counted. How about you, Old Man? You do the online dating?"

"I gave it up about a year ago."

"Why that?"

"They kept matching me up with my ex-girlfriends."

Roger laughed. "Old Man, stuck doing things the same way, expecting something different."

Morgan crossed his arms and frowned as Roger started mashing the lasagna with the side of his fork.

"I suppose you know all the secrets of internet dating."

Morgan gave him a mocking look as he took a bite.

"Is it wearing certain colors in your picture?" He had heard red was a powerful color, and attracted more interest in one's profile. That, or showing off six-pack abs. His baby beer belly wasn't qualified for those pictures, though he couldn't see Roger going shirtless for his photos either.

"No," Roger said.

"Is it code words? Like you can't just say that you have money, so you say things like you enjoy driving your convertible to wineries?"

"Not quite."

"So what is it?'

Roger smiled and flicked an eyelid. "I am a new man every time. Never the same man twice."

Morgan thought for a moment. "So you lie."

"Everyone lies on a first date, Old Man. We are not who we really are, we are some polished imitation we hope the lady will like."

"So you're a tycoon one day, a catfish fisherman the next?"

"The lies have to be believable, Old Man. The best lies coat a grain of truth. Everyone knows this but you."

"That's no way to find love," Morgan said.

"Is that Old Man wisdom? You should write fortune cookies."

"So of all these women," Morgan said, sweeping his arm to encompass the pictures, "who lasted the longest?"

"That's not the right question."

"What's the right question?"

Roger set down his fork and wiped carefully at the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

"Few are interesting past the second date; the lies repeat, you see? No, of course you don't. Some are interesting for three, very few worth a fourth or fifth dinner."

"What about love?"

"What about it? Love is best fresh. I love many times, many women, different women, different flavors. It keeps me from becoming an old man like you."

"That sounds like too much work."

Roger looked down at his plate. "You eat nothing but lasagna for the rest of your life because it feels too hard to fix anything else? Huh?"

"Says the guy getting Meals on Wheels."

Roger gave Morgan a big grin and went back to his plate.

"See you next week, Roger."

"Wait, I got something for you." Roger got up and moved to a stack of magazines in his living room.

"I'm not supposed to accept gifts. I really can't, Roger."

"No, not a gift. This you can take. Ah-ha!" He held up a small cream-colored envelope. "You deliver a meal next to the woman in 4E, yes?"

"Yes."

"Here." Roger gave him the envelope. "You give this to her from me."

"What is it?"

"You just give it to her. She doesn't have the Internet, and I don't trust the mail. You just talk me up to her, okay, Old Man?"

"What am I supposed to tell her?"

Roger gestured to the walls. "Tell her I'm a photographer."

In the hallway, Morgan tapped the envelope against his fingertips a few moments. Bernice might welcome Roger's advances, or she might start thinking she had a stalker. Bernice watched a lot of Court TV and was always talking about stalkers. In the end, it was karma that made the decision for him. Morgan tossed the note down the garbage chute. He didn't know if Roger was right about love, but one thing was for sure: he may deliver meals, but he was no one's errand boy.

He'd stack a few more loose shopping carts together the next time he went to the store just in case.

Hear! Hear!

By Bettyann Moore

“Mom, you really should do something about your hearing.”

Rita Repnick peered up at her daughter over her reading glasses. She thought Marsha had said “Reaganomics is somewhere steering,” but she was pretty sure that couldn’t be it. For one thing, though it made sense in a strange way, Marsha wasn’t given to talking politics with her mother. And, for another, to say such a thing out of the blue like that …

“What was that, dear?” she resorted to one of her stand-bys.

“I said,” Marsha yelled across the kitchen where she was banging pots onto the stove, “Your hearing … you really should so something about it!”

When Marsha spoke up, Rita had no problem at all hearing her. Why couldn’t she do that all the time instead of mumbling so?

“There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, dear,” Rita said for the millionth time, “people just need to speak up!” Agitated, Rita buried her nose in her book while her daughter clattered around in the kitchen. She was pretty sure Marsha was mumbling something else, but Rita pretended to be absorbed in the text. In truth, she keep reading the same paragraph over and over again.

 

Life had been a lot less complicated when Rita lived in her own little house. She had Mitzy, her cat; her books, a market just blocks away and quiet, blessed quiet. But when her Martin passed on and the lawyers informed her that she didn’t even have a pot to pee in – Martin had even gambled the house away – she had no choice but to come live with Marsha and her 12-year-old son, Brad. Not for the first time, Rita thanked her lucky stars that Marsha had thrown out that good-for-nothing husband of hers long before that, otherwise Rita would be living in a cardboard box and learning the finer points of Dumpster diving. She shuddered.

Yes, she was grateful to her daughter, but embarrassed as well. Here she was, not quite 61 years of age – too young for Social Security and too old for employers – and forced to take charity. The pittance from Martin’s Social Security went to pay off his numerous creditors, clean-cut banker types in expensive suits and polished shoes, but they may as well be sporting shaved heads, nose-piercings and tattoos for all the sympathy they’d given her. Can’t get blood from a turnip,she thought, but they sure as heck do try. She sighed and set her book down on the coffee table; maybe Marsha would like a little help in the kitchen.

“Need some help, dear?” Rita asked Marsha, who was now stirring something that smelled rather like old shoes.

“All under control, Mom,” Marsha said. She reached for a spice bottle from an open cabinet.

“Sure, I’d be glad to,” Rita said brightly. “Where are they?”

Marsha stopped stirring and turned to stare at her mother. “Where are whom?” she asked.

“The rolls,” Rita began, “didn’t you say to get out the rolls ...” The look on Marsha’s face told her that wasn’t at all what she’d said.

“Oh, dear!” Rita cried, laughing. “I guess I got that wrong, huh?” She nudged Marsha, trying to get a smile out of her. Joking was Rita’s second line of defense. Denial was number one.

Marsha just shook her head and went back to stirring. They both turned – Rita a heartbeat later – when Brad, out of breath and sweaty from soccer practice, came bursting through the door.

“Hey ma, what’s for dinner, I’m starving! Hi Gram,” he added as an afterthought.

“When are you not starving?” Marsha asked, elbowing him away from the pot on the stove.

As the two jostled playfully, Rita slunk back into the living room. This was the time when she felt most invisible and useless. She tuned out the murmur of their voices and went back to reading her book until someone called her for dinner.

Dinner, though it still smelled odd, was surprisingly good – some sort of chicken and Parmesan concoction. Rita hated the smell of Parmesan, so that explained that. Brad, who only had two speeds, fast and frenetic, gobbled up everything on his plate while regaling his mother and grandmother about his day. He’d yet to become a sullen teenager, for which Rita was grateful. The boy talked a mile a minute, though, and with his mouth full. Rita ate slowly and daintily, as she always did, and listened the best she could.

“You shoulda seen the save the keeper made today!” Brad said.

His mother smiled and said “Great, huh?” so Rita figured he hadn’t said “Yoda sees brave, deeper days,” as she thought at first. Taking her cue from her daughter, she tried to look enthusiastic. Sometimes, the pretense was exhausting. She resented it when she would ask “Pardon?” or “What was that?” and the speaker would say, “Never mind,” and roll their eyes. Why bother saying anything, she wondered, if it wasn’t worth repeating?

Brad kept talking and Rita smiled and nodded, or frowned and shook her head … whichever seemed the most appropriate at the time. Thankfully, dinner was soon over and Brad leapt to his feet and threw his napkin down on his plate.

“Mr. Roi is gonna kill me if I don’t get that assignment done!” the boy declared.

Rita heard: “Hemorrhoids are gonna kill my ass before long.” She was shocked that he’d talk about such a thing, and at the dinner table no less. She decided to speak up.

“Brad, honey,” she said gently, “perhaps that subject isn’t appropriate?” She gave her daughter a glance, looking for back-up.

Marsha only gave her a quizzical look.

“Gram, what are you talking about?” Brad asked. Then it dawned on him. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” he accused.

“I, I just don’t think hemorrhoids should be ...”

“Hemorrhoids! Oh my god, you thought I was talking about hemorrhoids?” Brad doubled over, laughing. “I said Mr. Roi! Hello? My teacher? Wait’ll I tell Josh! That’s a good one, Gram!”

Even Marsha was laughing. Rita’s blood started to boil. How dare they make fun of her! She got to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster.

“I don’t see what’s so funny!” she cried. “If I am a little hard of hearing ...” she hesitated. It was the first time she even came close to admitting such a thing. “Well, if so, isn’t that a handicap? Like having a broken leg?” Her face was turning red and her voice rose. “If I had a broken leg, would you make fun of that, too? Would you run ahead of me, leave me at the top of the stairs with no way to get down? And laugh at me? What’s wrong with you people?”

Jaws open, eyes wide, Brad and Marsha simply stared at her. Rita threw down her napkin and stalked off to her room. Maybe it was time to go see Belle.

“Are you sure I can’t give you a ride to Belle’s, Mom?” Marsha, who’d been overly solicitous, asked the next day.

Rita was pretty sure she hadn’t said “You’re in thalidomide hell, mon.” She assessed the physical clues, as she’d become accustomed, and surmised that her daughter was just trying to be nice. Sometimes, given enough time, Rita was perfectly capable of figuring out the words for herself.

“No,” she said. “And don’t wait up for me!” Still hurting from the night before, she wasn’t about to cave in the face of Marsha’s kindness, at least yet. Let her feel guilty for a while, Rita thought as she buckled herself into her 15-year-old car. The truth was, Rita was feeling guilty herself. She knew she might be a taddeaf, but what was she supposed to do about it? There was no money for hearing aids! She had no insurance and she was too young for Medicaid and, frankly, she felt, way too young for hearing aids as well.

She backed the car out of the driveway and headed to Belle’s, even though a person named Belle didn’t even exist.

The flashing neon signs, the acres of parked cars, even the valets in their red jackets immediately served to calm Rita. Inside, the seemingly endless room of whirling and flashing lights, muted music and people calmed her further. This was Belle, the Belle Plaine Casino, the biggest of its kind in Northeast Wisconsin, and Rita’s little secret.

Martin, of course, had spent hours here, and when she had objected to all his time away, he started taking her along, for a “night out.” They had nights out most every day of the week. Rita had been a reluctant player. He would hand her a cup full of quarters and send her on her way while he headed to the high-stakes tables. The clanking of coins, the bells and shouting when someone hit a jackpot were, at first, confusing and obnoxious. Gradually, though, as her hearing grew worse, it all mellowed into a soothing murmur that cocooned her in anonymity. Here, she didn’t have to talk – or listen – to anyone if she didn’t want to. Everyone minded their own business.

It was even better, Rita admitted to no one but herself, now that Martin wasn’t with her. She no longer had to worry about how much money he was losing, or bide her time when she’d run out of quarters – Martin was sure his next few hands would be winners and he refused to leave. Or the next few hands. Or the hands after that. She began bringing books with her. She made rules for herself. If she doubled her money, she quit, and found a corner on a cushiony sofa to read. If she lost her stake (which was never more than $40), she did the same. It was common sense, which Martin never had.

Even now, when money was tight, Rita saved up – a dollar here, a quarter there – until she had her stake; it usually took months. She liked the idea that in front of a slot machine, everyone was equal. The machine didn’t give a damn who you were, a millionaire or a granny clutching a few dollars; everyone had an equal chance at winning when they pulled the lever or punched a button. An equal chance at losing, too, but that was just part of the deal.

Nowadays, Rita played the penny slots. She knew the odds of winning were less than on the quarter or dollar machines, but pennies lasted longer. She was there to gamble, sure, but she was also there to enjoy the experience, the ambiance … even the free drinks sometimes (though she had a hard time hearing the servers calling “Drinks? Coffee?” over the piped-in music and the noises of the machines).

She was a little sad when the casino started replacing the coin machines with tokens, the sound wasn’t as satisfying, and even sadder when they went coin-free. It just wasn’t the same when the machine spit out a slip of paper rather than a cascade of coins. But she got used to it and came to love what, to her, sounded like muted music – the babble of voices, the silly songs the machines played with every spin, even the oddly-chosen Muzak tunes overhead.

Rita did her usual circuit around the grand room, watching the expressions on the players’ faces, which were universally bland, but focused, unless they were winning. By the time she sat down at “her” machine, she’d forgotten all about Marsha and Brad’s rudeness. She fed a dollar into the machine – a dollar at a time made it last longer – and pressed the buttons.

Several hours later, Rita’s small stake was almost gone, but she was enjoying herself tremendously. The machine had, as she liked to say, “let her play,” rather than sucking in the dollars with nary a penny paid back. The credit total went up, then down, then up, then down, but she’d never doubled her money, which would mean walking away. She stood and stretched a bit, then caught the eye of the young server who was making her rounds. The casino was always freezing and Rita wondered how these girls in their tiny skirts and low-cut blouses managed to stay warm.

“I’ll have a G & T,” she told the girl when she finally came over, “with a lime wedge.”

“Yes ma’am,” the girls said brightly and strolled away, taking other orders as she went.

Rita did a few unobtrusive leg stretches, even bending down as if to pick something up off the floor, just to work her muscles a bit. When she had to grab onto the stool to help her get back up, she figured she’d better not do that again. Finally the server came back; Rita kept a special stash of tip money in her fanny pack just for such occasions. So many people, she’d noticed, never bothered to tip at all, especially penny machine players.

Sitting back down at her machine, Rita took a sip of her drink and reached for the buttons again.

“Gah!” she cried, spitting the liquid back into the cup. “This isn’t gin!” Too late, she noticed that she’d hit the Max Play button on the machine, draining the credits and what was left of her stake.

Rita watched in amazement, though, when one, two, three, four – oh my word! – five wild symbols dropped into place. The machine’s bells, whistles and lights went wild as Rita gawked at the numbers flashing on the screen above it. Jackpot! She’d won a jackpot! People started crowding around her, something she’d never experienced before. She felt suddenly a little protective of the machine and just a little afraid. Five hundred thousand dollars and change. Who knew a penny machine could pay so much? Five hundred thousand!

The nice slot manager explained later that her particular machine was part of a vast network of machines at casinos across the country and each spin of those various machines progressively increased the jackpot. It took a couple of hours for the paperwork to be done and Rita was ready to head home, though the manager assured her that they would be happy to put her up in one of their luxury suites. She had a check stashed in her fanny pack, which made her nervous as all get out, but felt better when the manager insisted that two security guards walk her to her car. She tipped all of them well.

Her hands shook less and less as she neared her daughter’s house. Her mind was full of ways in which the money would be spent. There was one small thing she wanted first, but after that paying off Martin’s debts was at the top of the list – a small house (or maybe a condo instead), college for Brad, a new car.

Three weeks later, Rita had decided on a condo – who needed all that yard work? – and she was wearing, for the first time, a set of hearing aids. The tests indicated a lot more lost hearing than she thought possible, and still get along. But, gee, she thought as she left the otologist’s office, it certainly is loud out here.

It got louder.

Her first stop was the condo, where the Realtor, Mary Sue Peters, would be waiting with papers to sign. Rita loved the complex at first sight. It was fairly new, on a golf course and catered to “seniors.” Each unit looked out over a central courtyard and each had its own patio; Rita had chosen a lower unit.

The Realtor, dressed in a red Chanel suit and matching pumps, was pacing in the bright living room when Rita arrived. Business must be good, Rita thought, I didn’t know you could even buy Chanel in Wisconsin.

“Oh, Mrs. Repnick!” the woman bellowed, “I’m so glad you’re on time. Time is money, you know!”

Rita threw her hands over her ears. Was the woman always this loud? She wished she remembered how to turn the hearing aids down.

“Now, let’s get started, shall we?” Mary Sue sashayed over to the kitchen bar where papers lay waiting.

Rita went to join her, but what was that god awful noise? It sounded like a whole jungle of screeching birds.

“Hello, asshole,” a voice said. “Whatcha lookin’ at, bitch?”

“What the …?” Rita began.

“Oh, that’s just Mr. Riggs’ birds. Next door? Aren’t they cute? Now, if you could just sign here ...”

“I don’t remember any birds from the last time I was here,” Rita said.

“Oh, they’re perfectly quiet at night, of course. Nothing to worry about,” Mary Sue insisted. She hurried over close the open patio door.

“Hey, dipshit, what do you think you’re doing?” another voice called before the door was shut. Rita could still hear a lot of caterwauling through the wall.

“Now, where were we?” Mary Sue was all business. “Yes, I just need a few signatures ... and a check, of course.”

“Of course.” Martin had always handled the details of their lives and it made Rita nervous to be the one who did it now. Of course, she thought, look how well he did … we lost our home, our reputations.She sighed and reached for the pen that was offered, but jumped when something thumped overhead.

“My goodness, what was that?” she cried, as several more thumps shook the room.

“Oh, uh, that’s just Mrs. Godfrey … she’s, uh, learning to fence.”

Sometimes, it didn’t matter if you heard something or not. Rita pictured a woman dressed in a cowgirl outfit, stringing wire onto posts.

“Yes, you know, with swords and stuff? En garde? Like that.” Mary Sue was starting to look perturbed.

It sounded more like elephants to Rita – dancing elephants.

“Um, maybe I should give this a little more thought,” she said. “I’m in no hurry.”

“Goodness, whatever for?” Mary Sue’s eyes went wide. “Why, this place will be snatched up in a second if you don’t take it now!” She held the pen out again, but Rita backed away.

“I think I’ll take my chances,” she said, reaching for the doorknob. The stomping overhead continued unabated. “I’ll call, okay?” She didn’t give Mary Sue a chance to answer before she was out the door. Maybe a little house in the country was the way to go.

Marsha and Brad were already home when she pulled into the drive. She hadn’t told them about the hearing aids and couldn’t wait to see how long it took for them to realize that she wasn’t always asking them to repeat themselves. She smiled in anticipation.

The first thing she noticed when she stepped inside was Brad’s music. Before, it was always just the mild thump, thump, thump, of the base, but now … what was that he was listening to? It sounded like two mountain cats going at it with chimpanzees cheering them on. The TV was blaring in the corner. Marsha, oblivious, was talking on the phone, her back to the door.

“Oh, I can’t wait for that day!” she was saying. “She’s about to drive me nuts!”

Rita froze in her tracks.

“It’s not just the constant whining about how we shouldn’t make fun of her … what? … well, no, not really … it’s just her hearing is so bad and we keep having to repeat ourselves and you know how that is … exactly! … who wants to keep saying the same stuff over and over? … and get this, a few weeks ago Brad mentioned Mr. Roi, his teacher ...”

Rita had heard enough. She took a few steps backwards toward the door, then turned and ran to her car, leaving the door wide open.

“The nerve!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “After all I’ve done for that child! Maybe I should break my leg and see how she likes that!” Rita paused for a second, thinking how ridiculous that sounded, but dammit, she was mad!

And pretty much homeless at this point … with money, of course. A small house in the country was sounding better and better.

She squealed her tires as she sped away from the house, hoping Marsha would look out the window to see her taking off.

She needed some Belle.

By the time she pulled into the parking lot, Rita was calmer, though still hurt and angry. She sat in her car for awhile, breathing deeply. She hadn’t been to Belle since she’d won and wondered whether they’d give her the high roller treatment. That might help a bit.

As she heaved open the heavy glass doors to the casino, though, her ears were assaulted. The cacophony of music blaring, people talking and laughing, the machines clanging and whirring nearly knocked her to to knees. She stood there, mouth agape, overwhelmed. The place was no longer a cozy cocoon of muted celebration, but a confusing and, yes, obnoxious Bedlam.

This was the final blow. Rita turned around, stalked toward the doors, yanked out her hearing aids and threw them in the garbage can that sat there.

Then she went to play.