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Grandpapa's New Woman By Delinda McCAnn

9/11/2018

This is a bit of an afterward to my new novel, Lucy Goes Home, coming out whenever the publisher gets it done.

Grandpapa's New Woman

Grandpapa C’Tis sat in his room with the door closed and chewed on the heel of his thumb. Occasionally, he glanced at the letter on the table beside him. He bit the heel of his thumb and looked across his fields to the small cemetery high on the mountainside facing his home. His wife was gone, had been gone these past twenty years. He had children and grandchildren but they weren’t the same as having a wife. He glanced toward the cemetery again, knowing that His Elspeth wanted him to live. She valued love. He nodded. Elspeth would be happy knowing he had a new companion.

He watched his grandson, Young C’Tis, driving Lucy’s red convertible from her house to the place on the terrace behind his house where the cars were kept. Still gnawing on his problem, he followed his grandson. I should talk to him about Hallie. He caught up to C’Tis as C’Tis set the brake in the car. “How’s Lucy? Is she still asleep? Why did she drive home instead of taking the train?”

C’Tis turned toward Grandpapa. “Uncle Peter just called Kenny.” C’Tis pressed his lips together and looked away. When he looked back at Grandpapa he had tears in his eyes. “Some people tried to kidnap Lucy last night. They chased her half-way across the country. We’ve set a watch up on goat peak in case they try to come for her here.”

Grandpapa scowled and picked up one of C’Tis’s rags to wipe at the layers of dust on the sports car. He thought about his other problem. He couldn’t upset C’Tis with talk of a new woman now. Could he bring a new wife here if evil was still following his granddaughter? Would C’Tis think he’d forgotten Grandmama Elspeth?

Kenny soon strode up to the parking lot, trailing the shop-vacuum behind him. “I’ll get the inside.” Kenny chewed on the hairs in his new mustache. “Derran came up to visit Lucy. He said they made good time last night. He thinks the people following them were after him too because of his work in the prosecutor’s office. He says they were part of the same group that tried to kill the prosecutors.”

Grandpapa nodded. “Is Lucy still sleeping?”

Kenny paused before turning on the noisy vacuum. “Yeah, Derran said she hasn’t eaten or slept much all week because she was worried about her final exams.”

Grandpapa’s chin trembled. “Is Lucy safe now?”

Kenny nodded. “She’s safer than most people in this country. Nobody will dare touch her now that the leaders behind the troubles have been captured.” Before Grandpapa could mention his new woman, Kenny turned on the vacuum.

Grandpapa left the young men to clean the car and took his bigger problem back to his room. He read the letter on his table. Someone would have to pick the woman up at the train station in the morning. What should he tell the children? What if he didn’t like the woman when he saw her. What if her voice was loud and grating? What if she didn’t like his home? What if she didn’t like his adopted children because they’d been orphaned?

He paced for an hour before he climbed the mountain to the settlement at High Valley. He nodded to his neighbors as he made his way toward the shaman’s hut. He found his old friend laying on his back in the grass behind his hut feeding bits of leaves to a baby goat.

“I’ve come to ask your opinion.” He sat cross legged in the grass beside the wise man. “When I was on TV, this woman wrote to me after, and I wrote back." He poured out his problem. "…so, she’s coming. I haven’t said anything to anybody about her because we’ve written to each other, but I don’t know if she’ll have me once she sees me.”

The shaman still on his back rolled his head to the side to look at Grandpapa C’Tis. He considered his words. The woman would be a complete fool to refuse Uncle C’Tis. He was the richest man in the mountains. He had powerful friends. He was also naive for all his experience with the outside world. “Bring the woman home and give her a room at the resort. Now, if she wants to get in your bed, you tell her she must wait until the archbishop makes it all legal. Meanwhile, you watch her real close like. She’ll be nice to Miss Lucy, but watch how she treats Beulah. Watch Mr. Kenny. If she’s the wrong sort of woman, Mr. Kenny and Mrs. Irene will see that in a flash. I’ll come visit you day after next and see if she is the right sort of woman for your family. She must respect Mrs. U’Nice.”

“Ah, the right sort of woman for my family.” Grandpapa nodded and stood abruptly to return home.

When he came back down the mountain he ran his hand over the red convertible and imagined himself picking up his new woman from the train station in this car. He nodded. The convertible would be much nicer than the truck. He studied the instrument panel. Could he drive the thing?

Before the sun came over the mountains the next morning, Grandpapa, dressed in his second best suit, tiptoed out to the sports car. He winced when the motor roared to life. He watched the windows to see if he woke any of his grandchildren. Once started, the car was quiet enough to slip down the road and over the pass without waking the rest of the family.

As he drove down the winding road that would take him out of the mountains, his lower lip protruded farther and farther. What if she isn’t the right sort of woman? She sounds nice in her letters. How will we get rid of her if she’s bossy with Mrs. U’Nice? What if she doesn’t want me? She sounds eager to come, but maybe she’ll think I’m too old. Maybe she won’t have come, after all. I should have said something to C’Tis or Lucy. I hope she’s the right sort, but I don’t know. How will we …?” His thoughts felt like they were spinning faster than the wheels on the car.

Before the train came in, Grandpapa had gassed the car in the village and greeted his village friends, “I’m picking up a guest for the resort.” He parked the car at the station, then shuddered when he saw a curtain twitch in the second floor window at the new pharmacy his granddaughter, Sarah, owned. Should I go tell Sarah I’m just picking up a guest for the resort?

He didn’t need to tell Sarah. The owner of the general store popped in Sarah’s back door to get some aspirin and say, “I see your Grandpapa has a new car. He’s picking up someone for the resort.”

Sarah nodded. “That’s the car Lucy and Martha drive at university.” She glanced out the window toward the car. “You know, someone tried to kidnap Lucy when the prosecutor’s offices were attacked the other night. She drove all the way home.” She bit her lip. “Can you let us know if anybody is asking about the car, or her?”

Before the train came in, a boy about ten ran down the back path from the farm store to the pharmacy. “Miss Sarah, I’m to tell you not to worry about those people who are looking for Miss Lucy, we know how to give them what for.”

The train arrived and Sarah stepped out the door of her pharmacy with a sack of supplies for Grandpapa to carry back to the clinic at the resort. The owner of the bakery met Sarah in the middle of the road. “I heard about those people who chased Miss Lucy home. We have a plan for them if they show their faces in the village. We don’t like their sort around here.”

Sarah nodded at her neighbor and missed seeing the resort-guest throw her arms around Grandpapa and give him a hug somewhat more than warm.

Officer Burke came trotting up the only street in town. He reached the red convertible just as Grandpapa tried to open the passenger door for the woman clinging to his arm with both of her hands. “Elder C’Tis, we’ve heard about the attack on Miss Lucy. We consider her one of our own. Nobody’s going to be nosing around here looking for her or that car.” He pulled his belt back up around his waist.

A scrawny farmer with sweat stains under his arms and manure on his boots, stroked the convertible. “I saw this car come through my place the night before last. Was that Miss Lucy and her young man?” He scratched the back of his head, pulled a seed or bug from his hair and dropped it on the ground. “I guess I can put a chain and lock on my gate. I’ll put up a big bell. Anybody who wants to come through my land can ring the bell and explain to me why they need to come through.”

Sarah finally got a word in edgewise. “Grandpapa, I have some medicines and supplies for Kai.” She held up her bag.”

The woman beside grandpapa finally dropped his arm. “You must be Miss Sarah, the pharmacist. C’Tis told me all about you. I’m Hallie S’Kay from Argos City.” Hallie held out her hand.

Sarah dropped her bag on the front seat of the car and shook hands with Grandpapa’s friend. “I’m pleased to meet you.” She glanced at the stationmaster standing behind Hallie holding two large suitcases and thought that Mrs. Hallie had come prepared for a long stay.

The baker watched the new woman from under half-closed eyelids. The farmer scratched the back of his head again. Officer Burke hitched up his belt again and said what everybody else thought. “Now, Sir, don’t you worry about Miss Lucy, or anything. We know how to take care of our own, and there won’t be no outsiders coming in here harming Miss Lucy…or anybody else.”

Poor Grandpapa turned this way and that and wished these people would just go away and let him get on with it.

Sarah wanted to laugh over her protective neighbors. “Grandpapa, you can’t drive Mrs. Hallie up the mountain with the top down. We’ll have to put it up just to get her luggage in.

The stationmaster sprang forward to help Sarah with the convertible top and to stow the luggage, while Hallie stood beside Grandpapa and praised everything she saw. She finally hit on a topic to make everybody happy. “Oh I saw the paper in Mesa City this morning. I looked for the graduates, you know. That paper said Miss Lucy McKinsey graduated first in her class.”

Sarah puffed a little as she bent over the back of the driver’s seat and wedged her sack between the two suitcases. She looked through the far window. “That’s good news. I think we all knew she would, but school will be easier for the younger ones if us older ones do well.”

Grandpapa was finally able to tuck his friend into the car and close her door. He wondered why he thought he could drive to the village and pick someone up without everybody knowing his business. What would she think of him, and the village people almost threatening her. He felt heat creeping up his neck. What would A’Kee say? Would his grandchildren accept her? What if the children were too noisy for her? He turned the car toward home and stepped down on the gas leaving a trail of dust behind him.

Of course, Sarah pulled her phone out of her pocket before the dust settled. She debated a half-second over who to call first. She decided Lucy had the first right to know what was in the wind. “Lucy, I’m calling to tell you where your car is. Grandpapa is using it to bring a female friend home from the train.”

“What kind of female friend?” Lucy sat at her kitchen table and paused with her bite of waffle half-way to her mouth.

“The kind that looks at him like an adoring puppy, clings to him with both hands, and looks like she can’t wait to eat him.”

Lucy’s laugh sounded evil to Sarah. “Right. I’m all over this. If I don’t get any hanky-panky, neither does he. Do you know, he told me that I can’t get married at home, and that I have to go to the capital so Uncle Peter can be there, and that he has my whole wedding planned? He makes the rules. We’ll see how he likes living with them.”

Lucy got off the phone and called up the stairs to her sisters, “Everybody on deck. Family meeting in fifteen minutes. Important guest coming in.”

Fifteen minutes after Sarah called Lucy, the whole family gathered at tables in the outside kitchen. Lucy opened the discussion. “Grandpapa has a girlfriend, and he’s bringing her here. We need a nice room for her at the lodge.”

C’Tis hid his hands behind his face and sniffed. “Praise the mountains, the sky and the wind. He’s clung to the past ever since Grandmama died.” He shook his head.

Adele watched C’Tis. “Right. We need some flowers for her room, and maybe we should take her some of the extra rugs from Uncle Andrew’s room.”

Lucy’s phone pinged. She looked at the screen. “This is KA’Lee from the Argos orphanage. She says. Your Grandpapa is Mrs. Hallie’s new man? Sparkling! I’m so relieved. Everybody worried when she bought new clothes and left town to meet a man none of us knew. She’s a sweetie. You’ll love her.

Kenny had been standing behind where C’Tis sat. He let out a long noisy breath. “That’s a relief.”

Martha’s phone pinged, “This is from Cousin James. He ran a background check on Mrs. Hallie through the Federal Investigative Service Office. It came up clean.”

Lucy’s fiancé Derran stopped his truck by the outdoor kitchen. He waved his cell phone in the air as he hustled to Lucy’s side. “I just heard from Prosecutor LeMoin in Argos City. He knows this woman Grandpapa is bringing home. He says she worked as an aid at his son’s school.”

Mama U’Nice raised her hands in the air and said, “Hallelujah! Another pair of hands.”

Kenny looked at his brothers and sisters. “The poor woman doesn’t know what she’s getting into. Now that everybody has investigated something that probably wasn’t any of our business, we better get a move on to give this woman a warm welcome.”

As he drove the car down from the pass toward his lodge, Grandpapa wondered if he’d ever laughed as much as he had on the ride home from the village. Next, he wondered what kind of fool he’d been to think that a man living with twenty-six grandchildren could bring home a new woman without everybody in the family turning out at the lodge to inspect the new guest. He inventoried the family lined up outside the front doors. The little girls wore their party dresses. Lucy, Martha and Nicole had their hair pulled up on top of their heads. They waved to Grandpapa as he arrived. Mr. Kenny wore his suit and rushed forward to open Hallie’s door.

Grandpapa let out the breath he’d been holding for days. His grandchildren would help him impress this new woman. She’d love them. The worst of his worries were over.

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Medical Care USA: Why the Crisis By Delinda McCann

9/3/2018

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After finding myself with a serious and very painful infection and no medical services available in my community, I decided to find out what was wrong. When I moved to this island, we had two thousand year-round residents and another fifteen hundred summer people. We also had four doctors. We had lab facilities and minor surgery capability. We now have ten-thousand year-round residents and two doctors working at a clinic that can’t make ends meet. What happened?
As for the clinic, I couldn’t understand why it suddenly stopped making enough money to survive, so I attended a community meeting about health care on our island. The clinic administration sent a couple representatives to talk to us. The representatives agreed that the clinic was at capacity with only two doctors. They also said their goal is to provide primary care rather than stitching up minor cuts. If we cut a finger or a child falls off their bike and scrapes a knee, they are expected to go to an urgent care center off island. Because of ferry schedules, it can take up to two hours to get to an urgent care center. Old people with the flu are expected to ride the ferry to get their Tamiflu prescription. If you have an ear infection, strep throat, broken bone, or pneumonia, take the ferry off island.

One representative had a graph showing sources of income for the clinic. It didn’t look right to me. He had a pale green section for grants. City of Seattle gives clinics inside the city grants. We don’t qualify. They had a purple bar for Medicaid income and a blue bar for Medicare income. The orange bar for income from private insurance was tiny. That just couldn’t be right. Everybody, on the island young enough to work, has health insurance.

I raised my hand. “Why aren’t you bringing in more from private insurance.”

The rep answered, “They only pay about a third of what it costs us to see a patient, while Medicaid pays one hundred percent and Medicare pays about sixty percent.”

I didn’t believe him. Surely, that expensive health insurance we buy actually pays our doctors for the services we receive. Didn’t the ACA specify that insurers have to pay eighty percent of their proceeds in claims? Okay, having worked with human services agencies I know twenty-percent overhead and profit is outrageously high and can be manipulated by how you define services.

I went to the internet and started looking for articles on who pays what. After reading several articles I came to the conclusion that I was wrong and the clinic representative was correct. Health insurance companies make up their own schedule of what they are going to pay, and a doctor’s office or clinic receives a portion of what they allow. In most of the cases I read about, insurance companies pay about a third of what it costs to see a patient.

I’ve found rumors that big systems like Swedish in Seattle can negotiate with insurers to get a better level of reimbursement. They have a huge base. If someone wants to sell health insurance in Western Washington that policy must cover the Swedish system along with the University of Washington system. Everybody uses those systems for backup on complicated issues.

So with only thirty percent of their costs reimbursed by insurance, how can a clinic survive? As I mentioned, they get some government grants—read: our tax dollars. Both Medicare and Medicaid reimburse at an acceptable rate so Medicaid patients are sought after to offset the deficits cause by private insurance—read: our tax dollars.

My community doesn’t have enough Medicaid and Medicare patients to offset the costs not reimbursed by private insurance.

I have some serious ethical concerns about the funds people with disabilities bring into a system being used to offset the costs of healthy, wealthy people. The practice smacks of prostitution.

My youngest foster daughter who has multiple disabilities lives in the city now. I had wondered why she has such attentive doctors. She has appointments every six weeks. Sometimes she’ll see more than one practitioner at once. She is over medicated, and some of her chronic conditions never get better. Once, I got her a cream at the health food store for a rash. It cleared that rash right up. The doctors told her not to ever use it again. The rash is back, but she’s afraid to use her herbal cream. We can’t have this little source of income for the clinic get well.

So, we have clinics that are not sustainable without an influx of tax dollars to support those people who buy insurance through their work or the exchanges. We have clinics who use Medicaid patients to supplement their income. Because clinics and private practices are not sustainable, we have trouble hiring enough professionals to serve communities outside the big population hubs where clinics can attract more Medicaid patients to exploit.

What do people in rural or isolated communities do? On Vashon, we are exploring our options. Some people have suggested a medical tax district to subsidize patients who have health insurance—more tax dollars. Some people have looked at the system and said, “This is almost socialized medicine. Why not go all the way?” The eventual ethical solution to the problem is a national single payer system, but that is not likely to happen before I get sick again, despite the fact that it would be cheaper for the general population and is almost what we have now.

Curiously, one of our biggest road blocks to a single payer system is the person who buys insurance through their job then says, “Why should I have to pay taxes so that some person who doesn’t work can have health care?”

The real question is, “Why should someone with disabilities have to run to the doctor every six weeks and take more medications than they need or is good for them, so that you can have health care?”

In the meantime what can isolated communities do to attract medical professionals? We must be able to pay for our care. Before the ACA, Washington State had a program called Basic Health. It was funded through our tax dollars along with a sliding scale fee for those who qualified by being too poor to buy corporate health insurance. My proposal would be to resurrect that program with a few modifications. Basic Health would be funded by those people, who qualified to purchase their health care through the program, because they live in an area with inadequate health care services. The coverage could be purchased at the market rate for private coverage. The big difference between the state sponsored program and corporate health insurance companies is that providers would be reimbursed for what they bill or at least at the same rate as Medicaid pays. This program would need reverses that would need funding through Federal Grants until it could build reserves through premiums.

Until we can find some way to fully fund health care, many of us will go without healthcare despite paying for it. Some people will continue to be exploited for the dollars they bring into a system, and some people will continue to profit off of a broken system.

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Medical Care USA By Delinda McCann

8/22/2018

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I’m a little late getting fresh material up on my blog this week. I haven’t felt well. I knew something was off, but didn’t develop symptoms until yesterday when it became obvious I needed to see a doctor and get started on antibiotics immediately.

I called the clinic where I’ve been a patient for thirty-five years. This clinic is under new corporate management. The last corporation that operated the clinic came in more like a hostile takeover than with any intent to provide medical services. They left abruptly taking everything in the building, except the dust-foodles, with them. The doctors reorganized and set up a partnership with the current corporation. I was aware the clinic was having financial troubles and asking for donations from the community. I’m also aware that they received several hundred thousand dollars in donations.
The clinic has been featured in the local paper where the director alleges their problems are due to lack of support from the community, and will we please donate more money. They assure us they can continue to serve us if they can get enough patients.
So, I called the clinic. The appointment clerk is someone in an off-site office who doesn’t know where Vashon is or that it is an island served by ferry boats. The off-site clerk assured me that I could not see a doctor today, but if I call at eight AM tomorrow, I might get an appointment tomorrow.
“Can I make an appointment today to see the doctor tomorrow?”
“No.”
I finally got the clerk to confess that if I wanted to see a doctor anytime in the next four days, I needed to call at eight AM to see if they have an opening that day. This was unacceptable.
Not being able to see my regular doctor and really feeling too sick to take the ferry off island, I did what any modern woman does. I posted my problems on the local Facebook page and asked if anybody knew what I should do.
The best suggestion from the rest of the community was to walk into the clinic and ask to see the nurse. Okay, I walked in and waited almost an hour to see the nurse. She didn’t want to look at my symptoms. She let me sit before she explained in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t see a doctor, and if I wanted to see one, I could participate in the eight AM call-in system that works more like a lottery than a business protocol.
I decided to get concrete and specific. “Okay, I understand I can’t see a doctor here. Do you know of a doctor on the island I can see.”
“No.”
“Okay, so I need to leave the island. Can you call the ER at Swedish and tell them I’m coming in?"
“No. I can’t do that. I don’t recommend going there because this isn’t life threatening.”
I hung in there. “Okay, what I need from you is some sort of workable game plan. Can you tell me where I can go to get a prescription for antibiotics.”
Finally, she suggested I try a urgent care clinic off island.
I took the ferry and got in to see a nurse practitioner, who glanced fearfully at my infection and called in a prescription for an antibiotic.
My next challenge was to get on a ferry-boat that would get me home before the pharmacy on the island closed. I managed to catch my ferry and get the anti-biotic. It took me a total of ten hours from the time I started looking for help until I was able to get the medication I needed. By this time, the infection was much worse, and I’d wasted a whole day. I took my pill went to bed and slept for twelve hours.
I still need to see a doctor to find out what is going on that I got so sick so fast. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I have a relationship with Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. They can get me in tomorrow to see a doctor and assess what is going on.
My experience is the state of medical care in this country. The problem really is based on profits. The local clinic tries to save money by not staffing for same-day patients. Well-patient checks are just more profitable than dealing with sick people. I suppose well people are more pleasant to deal with. The clinic staff may have thought I was being cranky, asking them if they had a list of referrals for patients they couldn’t work in to their schedule. I insisted the nurse answer my questions about where I could get appropriate care. They will certainly bill my insurance for more than my brief chat with the nurse was worth.
For years, I’ve watched the progress of the policy of having for-profit corporations provide human services. The practice seems to work for the corporation. They’ll get paid for my visit to the clinic yesterday, but they didn’t provide a service other than the two minutes the nurse spent trying to get out of talking to me.
We need to make changes. Clinics do need enough income to pay their employees, but they also need to provide appropriate medical services. The type of profiteering I see locally is totally unacceptable.

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The Deadly Divide: Basic Philosophy By: Delinda McCann

8/11/2018

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My mother-in-law valued competition. She bought her boys competitive games. She encouraged them to do more than their brothers and rewarded the one who picked the most berries or pulled the most weeds. Winning was valued. This worked pretty good for the oldest. The middle child couldn’t do better than his older brother, so he beat up on his younger brother, and that was winning, so it was okay. You know, the youngest of those boys never won. He was four years younger than the oldest. He was smaller. He never got the reward, but he grew up to be a good person despite never winning.

I was raised by two parents who liked to parade their children in front of others, then go do their own thing, leaving us to take care of ourselves. To make matters worse, mother always told us she was a great cook. This was a case where we never would have figured that out on our own. In self-defense, we took up cooking as soon as we could reach the food. Survival in my family meant that my brothers and I had to stick together. We learned to cooperate and look out for each other. Whomever was home at five PM started dinner. I often started dinner, then my brothers would come and finish cooking it while I did my homework.

Hubby and I arrived in adulthood with two very different approaches to life. He claims one reason he married me was that he liked the way my brothers and I helped each other out. The cooperation just felt better.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that when my brothers and I see something that needs to be done, we do it. Hubby’s brothers will have to stop and think about whether they should do a job. Will they win? What will the reward be? Is it the right thing to do? They will do something just because it’s right, but it takes a while for them to figure that out. Meanwhile, I’m standing with my mouth hanging open, wondering why they didn’t do their chores.

My mother-in-law’s goal was to teach her boys to work so they could be successful and they managed to be successful at a time when it was easy for white males to achieve success. Since they like to make comparisons, we’ll look at how they’ve done with their competition-winning philosophy compared to those who grew up cooperating. Money, education and status wise, both families are about the same. However, those who cooperate, have had less stressful lives and, I think, more fun despite the tragedies that come with life. I’ve certainly never seen anything in scientific literature on life success being related to having a high need to compete. A work ethic is beneficial but whether you choose to compete with others or cooperate doesn’t seem to be a factor in life success.

As Hubby figured out by the time he was six, the problem with competing is that someone loses. The system is constructed to produce those who lose. Those who lose may not be the one who doesn’t work as hard or has less innate ability, but someone who may be younger or female or have some other status that places them at a disadvantage. Hubby eventually became as experienced as his brothers and equally strong, but that sense of having continually been the loser in family activities has sent him in a different direction from his brothers, and he isn’t really friends with them.

Now, there is nothing unique about either my upbringing or Hubby’s. Some families emphasize competition and some emphasize cooperation. These are just different values. We see these values played out in society. Some people cooperate and some compete. These are simply values people have.

The important part comes with making judgements or allowing your own perspective to color how you see someone else. I have no idea how many times someone has been really angry with me, thinking that I’m competing with them when my goal has been to cooperate. I understand why they are upset, sort of. If I am successful at something, in their mind, I must be attempting to make them lose. However, I never ever think someone will see my actions as attempting to put others down, so when I look up from my successful task and say, “look it’s working” I’m always taken by surprise at others’ anger. I thought we were working toward the same goal and forgot that those who compete must look like they were the one who reached the goal first.

I think the misunderstanding between competition and cooperation, is at the root of much of our social conflict. Those who are focussed on competition are afraid that someone is going to make them lose. They absolutely cannot see the person who jumps into a task beside them and starts hauling dirt as someone who is going to help.

Part of attempting to save our communities, and ultimately, our country is going to be recognizing that people have a different approach to life. Nobody has to have a meltdown over people who are cooperating. Each of us needs to be aware that others are different and recognize that our enthusiastic attempts to be helpful are not always appreciated. It’s hard, but some of us need to take our cooperative efforts to a group where we will not be a threat to those who are trying to win, even when we all may have the same goal. We can reach our common goal by allowing each other to work in the way we each value.

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Victoria BC & S. Vancouver Island Vacation By Delinda McCann

8/3/2018

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Last week we took a four day vacation to Victoria BC. There is more to see on the south edge of Vancouver Island than just Victoria with its architecture and shops. We did visit the shops and admired the buildings.

Hubby commented on the regulations it must take to preserve the original architecture and keep the buildings clean. I picked up a brochure on the topic. Tourism more than pays for the costs of preserving the downtown area.

If one wants to see strip malls and modern buildings in Victoria they can travel out Douglas street for ten minutes and see all the modern you might want. I do recommend traveling outside the downtown area. Of course, everybody wants to see the Butchart Gardens, but we stayed at a B&B down the coast where we could walk on the beach and watch the Straights of Juan de Fuca.

Shopping! Moccasins make the best slippers in the world. They are made with natural materials and they're warm. The main motivation for this trip was to buy moccasins.

Beacon Hill Park is a short walk from downtown Victoria although we drove. This is from the bluff over looking the Straights of Jaun De Fuca. The Olympic Mountains in Washington State are in the background.

This picture was taken from about the same spot as the one above. I love this row of houses by the park. Wouldn't you love one?

I love all forms of native art. The totem poles have always captured my imagination. This one is in Beacon Hill park.

This totem pole reaching for the sky is near the bluff in Beacon Hill park. This picture was taken from close to the same spot as the houses.

The flower beds at Beacon Hill are something ordinary people could do. This is a water wise border, with an interesting color combination between the gold and magenta. The blues and greens in the bed makes the combo work.

Here is another water wise combo in the park. I was more interested in the Gerry Oak that grow here. They are an pre-ice age species and are relatively rare.

I was impressed with the use of the fuchsia as an understory plant in the park. The perennial fuchsia is inexpensive and prolific. It isn't fussy. this border is a mix of perennials and annuals.

I'm still in Beacon Hill Park. This peacock walked right past me. He didn't care that I was taking pictures of him. A loose peacock in a city park is a rare find.

Now, I've moved on to visit Butchart Gardens. It's really cool to have these world class gardens so close to my own home. This is the sunken garden. The beds here are very different from the ones in Beacon Hill Park. These are planted with mostly annuals with a few trees and shrubs for accent--much more labor intensive that the perennial borders at Beacon Hill. They also require more water.

This knot garden is at the top of the hill before going into the sunken gardens pictured above. Butchart Gardens were built over a rock quarry. Most of the dirt was imported when the gardens were built.

I love water lilies. These are in the sunken garden.

And here is the main fountain at Butchart Gardens. I need a better fountain in my garden at home.

When you get tired of looking at flowers at Butchart Gardens, you can take a 45 minute boat ride. The boat tour was $17 US. The boats leave every 15 minutes and there is never a line up. It was hot the day we were there so this nice cool boat trip allowed us to rest before visiting more of the gardens. We saw bald eagles and harbor seals from the boat, and there were lots of jellyfish in the bay. I found the trip educational as well as refreshing.

Okay, we've left the gardens behind and traveled down the coast to our B&B. The geology of Vancouver Island is different from my island. We saw lots of these outcroppings of basalt with very little top soil. I took this picture to show the lack of topsoil. This is what is under those gardens pictured above. This is why people on Vancouver Island don't get excited when earthquakes in the 4-5 range hit off their coast. The shock waves from an earthquake don't travel well through basalt so they actually shake less that areas with a deeper soil structure.

The view from the Lodge at Weir's Beach where we stayed. It was so quiet and peaceful away from the bustle of the city.

We took a walk on the sandy beach in the morning. Sandy beaches along this bit of coastline occur only in coves. Most of the shoreline is rock right down to the water's edge as seen in the distance.

Okay, who takes a picture of a manure pile? A writer. This manure pile is featured in one of my books. Also, remember what I said about little top soil. Composting is important in this farm area west of Victoria. The picture of the rock outcroppings was taken near here.

Small farms are common outside the city. This area grows mostly produce. I saw some animals. This road is where my heroine in Power and Circumstance lives. I took the photo from in front of Celia's house.

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In Memory

7/30/2018

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Salvatore Buttaci was my friend and inspiration. He could spin words in a way that most of us only hope to achieve. His flash fiction could tell a heart wrenching or laugh out loud story full of color and life, using just a few words. I just learned he passed in April. Today, I thought it would be appropriate to post his poem There are no Beggars in Heaven

His books can be found at https://www.amazon.com/default/e/B001KMHBYK/ref I had to laugh out loud when I went to his page to get the link. The first book was called. Flashing My Shorts. That was Sal. I can't say enough about his short stories and highly recommend Flashing My Shorts.

THERE ARE NO BEGGARS IN HEAVEN

There are no supplicants in Heaven.
For what might they ask? They have it all.
Only in this life do they wait
on breadlines, make wishes, pray
away disastrous outcomes.

This is the life of worry
and illusion. At every bend
we face, unpreparedly alone,
clever demons whose playthings
we squander, those ecru trinkets

that neither polish nor magic
can whiten to seraphic purity.
Here, we blindly live out our days,
unalarmed by inevitable
endings, tickled by success,

neutral to what happens next
when the open-palmed hand is still.
In Heaven, there are no supplicants,
No need to pray for one’s salvation.

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Accidental Tourist By Delinda McCAnn

7/21/2018

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Late in the summer, I collect herbs and greens from my garden to make a pot pourri that keeps the late summer flies and fall spiders from coming inside. This morning, I carried a two liter wicker basket for my cuttings. I sang an ancient chant that had been adapted for a folk tune as I worked my way from the catmint to the lemon balm. From the lemon balm, I needed to pass through my enchanted forest to the cedar. Enjoying the play of light and shadow in the woods I left the path, taking a short-cut between the trees.

A sudden gust of cold wind blew through the trees. I squinted against the spray of fir needles the wind brought down from the highest limbs. I opened my eyes to find myself on a quay between a river and railway tracks.

My knees threatened to give way, and my heart pounded. I looked about frantically. My trees were gone. Where was I? I felt disoriented, then recognized the marsh in front of me. I’d been here before. I still wasn’t sure if I’d come here in a dream or a day-dream, but I’d come with a friend although really, he’d been a stranger. “Omath? Omath? Are you here?” I called for the man who’d brought me here before. The platform seemed deserted. I looked inside the small red and black ticket booth or waiting room that wasn’t much bigger than a tool shed. Nobody was there. I searched both directions up and down the trolly tracks. The trolly was nowhere to be seen. I ran to the river side of the platform where the riverboat docked. The moorings sat empty as if nobody had ever been there.

I started to panic at finding myself isolated in this strange place. I finally looked down and found yellow footsteps painted on the platform. I smiled. I knew how to get back to my own world. Last time I’d been here, I got off the riverboat and followed the footsteps from the mooring to the small building.

Today, I followed the footsteps to the building, opened the door and braced myself for the wind that would buffet me as I passed from this place into my own woods. No wind greeted me. I stood in the empty room. I went out the door on the landward side of the building walked around and attempted to pass to my world through the door from the riverside again.

I spent the next hour trying various combinations to get through the interstice between my world and this, but I remained stuck at the station in this strange world. I finally sat on a bench on the outside of the building facing the trolly tracks. I still had my basket with me, so I sorted through my herbs as frightened tears rolled down my cheeks. Would I ever get home? Would I starve to death in this abandoned station? Would some unseen danger rise up out of the marsh and eat me? Who would feed my dog and cat? I saw weeds growing rampant through my gardens and sobbed for my lost gardens, pets, and family. Nobody would know where I’d gone.

A low hum coming from the tracks in front of me, pulled me out of my fears enough to look up. Off to my left, the trolly was coming. Maybe Omath would be on it. Maybe someone who could help me would come. I stood as the trolly came to a halt before me with much hissing of air brakes and the groaning of something heavy defying inertia.

The trolly was empty except for the conductor and an old man I could smell from twenty feet away. I looked at the conductor. “Omath?”

He nodded and held out his hand to help me and my basket onto the trolley. Not knowing what to do, I got on the trolley. I knew how to find Omath’s family. They might know how to get me home.

I sat directly behind the conductor as the trolly trundled toward the village. I wondered if I’d arrived in some sequential time and Omath would be there, or had I arrived years before Omath was born or years after he’d died? Would anybody recognize me? I finally forced myself to look at the vegetation around me was it bigger than I remembered, or smaller?

A comforting thought welled up. Maybe this is an hallucination, and I’m simply sitting on the bench in the woods. Maybe I have an allergy to leaf mould that triggers these hallucinations. I scowled. This didn’t feel like anything out of Alice in Wonderland. It felt the same as taking the bus into Seattle. I consoled myself with the idea that I’d see a doctor when or if I came to my senses.

The trolly stopped at the red and black station on the hillside where I could hear the sound of falling water echoing off the hillside and between buildings. Still carrying my basket, I disembarked and began the long walk to the top of the hill, following the same route Omath had led me on.

With Omath as my guide I hadn’t seen many people. Today, strangers came to doorways and looked me up and down. Men shouted after me with catcalls and lewd comments. I hurried my steps. I reached the tunnel below the financial district and breathed easier at this sign that I was on the right road and had arrived close to the right time. I slowed a little with my legs aching from my rapid climb.

I heard voices and looked up to see two men blocking my way. They stood with their feet apart and their hands on their hips. Their clothing appeared cleaner and more tailored than that of the men lower down in the city. The fronts of their loose fitting trousers bulged. They said something low, causing the hair to rise on the back of my neck. I felt myself growing angry I tried talking my way out of this tight spot. “Omath. I’m looking for Omath.”

One of the men answered, “Omath,” and spat on the ground.

I took the spitting as a bad sign.

The men advanced. I looked for an escape route. Walls rose up on either side of me. They could possibly outrun me. Even if I retreated, I still couldn’t get home without Omath. They men laughed and quickened their steps toward me. I set my basket on the ground behind me just as the first man grabbed my arm. I turned toward him ramming the palm of my hand up under his chin as hard as I could. His head snapped back, but he didn’t let go. The second man grabbed the arm I’d just used to hit the first. He wrapped his other arm around my chest. With the two men to hold me upright, I kicked the first man in the crotch. He immediately let go and doubled over. I had one hand free. The man still holding me around the chest attempted to throw me to the side. I’d grabbed him by the back of the neck with my one free hand. As I flew to my right, I still gripped the man by the back of the neck with my left hand. Twisting, I kicked at my opponent’s right leg. I’d knocked him off balance. I could feel him falling, I twisted away with every ounce of muscle I could summon, breaking my arm free as he hit the ground. I’d managed to turn far enough that we landed on the cobbled path with me on top. His grip had loosened to give me enough room to twist my back toward him and hit him in the solar plexus with my elbow. I heard him grunt and wheeze. I finally broke free and sprang to my feet. My opponent tried to lift his upper body. I kicked him in the ribs with my first kick. I leaped forward with one foot landing squarely on his privates. I didn’t bother to watch him drop to the cobbles unconscious. His friend had rolled over and was attempting to rise. I took one steady step on the ground, then landed a good solid kick to the man’s temple. He dropped back to the ground.

My first impulse was to run, but I remembered my basket. I feared that if I attempted to leave anything behind in this world, I’d never make it back to my own world. I grabbed the basket spilling only a few sprigs of catmint. Then, I ran. I ran through the tunnel and around the corner. I didn’t pause to admire any of the waterfalls cascading down the hill. I took the main street in a ground-eating, terrified run.

In my panic, I missed the wye where I need to turn uphill, but quickly recognized my mistake and turned to retrace my steps. Looking back the way I’d come, I saw a few people staring after me. None of the onlookers appeared menacing, so I slowed to a brisk walk, back the way I’d come then took a right turn then a left to climb the stairs that zig zagged up the cliff face, passing behind a waterfall.

My lungs screamed at me that they needed air, so I slowed to a normal walk. Looking behind me, I didn’t see anybody following. The sweat I’d formed while running began to dry and cool my body. I paused on the boardwalk behind the waterfall and let the mist wash some of the salty sweat from my face, but I’d started to feel chilled. A boy about ten, almost bumped me as he ran up the boardwalk. I continued my climb to the top of the hill.

I finally stepped between two trees and looked down a street of beautiful white stone shops. Everything looked clean up here. I saw a couple women going about their business. The boy who’d run past me ducked into a shop.

I felt the muscle in my calf begin to cramp. I limped forward wondering if I could get some tea in the bakery that would ease the chill that was setting into my muscles and stomach. Now that I’d reached the street where I might find Omath’s family, I began to worry, “What if they’re not here? Can I go back to the riverboat? I don’t have any money. They just have to be here.”

I breathed a sigh of relief when I found the linen and lace shop where I’d met Omath’s sister. I pushed open the door. A woman, maybe six feet tall and two hundred fifty pounds, slid off a high stool. “May I help you?”

Where was Omath’s sister? This was the right shop, but who was this person? “Omath?”

She said, “He teaches today.”

I felt the blood leaving my face and wondered if I would faint.

The front door to the shop opened behind me. Still more afraid than I realized, I spun prepared to defend myself against more attackers. “Katrina.” I wanted to hug Omath’s sister.

She smiled and tilted her head to one side, then said, “I’ve been hearing stories about you. How did you get here?” Katrina took the sleeve of my tee shirt and led me to toward the stool. She took my basket from my hand and set it on top of a lacy baby’s gown displayed on a low table.

I sat, grateful for the rest. I shivered and tears welled up in my eyes.

The large woman patted my shoulder and handed me a handkerchief trimmed in lace.

Just as Katrina wrapped a wool shawl around my shoulders, the door opened and two more people entered the shop. I recognized the man I’d seen when I came with Omath. I thought he might be Omath’s father. The woman looked like an older version of Katrina.

I felt slightly stupid as the four adults and the child stood in a circle around me staring at me. The father spoke. “Omath is teaching today. I don’t know how to get you home. How did you pass through from your world? Omath said the passages are closed right now.”

“I don’t know. I was gathering herbs in the enchanted forest, and the wind blew, and here I was or well, I was at the trolly stop.”

Katrina began to poke through my basket. “I could use these herbs.” She picked up a stem of cat mint and sniffed.

Her father nodded. “Enchanted forests are dangerous.”

The little boy bounced on the balls of his feet. “I know what to do.” He ran around a corner behind some shelves. I heard feet running up stairs probably taking two at a time. Within minutes he came clattering down again and ran up to my side holding a small silver pipe that looked as if it might be a whistle. He showed his whistle to the adults then stuck it in his mouth.

Katrina placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Johan, I don’t think that is going to work.”

Johan blew a long low note on his whistle. I guessed the note to be a low A on the musical scale.

I stared. “I was singing a song while I was working.” I sang a line of the ancient chant. “Where has he gone? a down-a down-a down. Where has he gone? a dilly-dilly-down.”

Omath’s father scowled at all of us. “She must have opened the portal with her song.”

The large woman said, “Maybe she’s like Omath and vibrates on a universal frequency.”

I didn’t understand the comment about universal frequencies. “I want to go home, but I don’t know how.”

Omath’s father said. “I’ll take you to the portal and play the whistle. You can chant. Maybe the door will open. Maybe you can pass through like Omath. Come. I’ll take you.” He chuckled. “I think you might be safe in the city by yourself now, but perhaps those who should know better might want to get even with you for beating them.” He turned to his daughter, who was sorting the herbs out of my basket. “Katrina, give us some money for the riverboat, and something to pay for those plants you intend to keep.”

Katrina reached below the counter where she was sorting herbs and pulled out a small box, opened it and took out several wooden coins.

I stood and handed the wool shawl out toward Katrina.

She said, “No, you keep it. The herbs are worth more than that to me. Or would you like a different one? Something in brown maybe?” She gestured toward a stack of soft shawls on a shelf.

I looked at the shawl in my hands. Woven in two shades of blue wool, it felt exceptionally soft. At home, this would cost near a hundred dollars. “This is beautiful. I love it, but it would be expensive in my world.”

Omath’s mother wrapped it around my shoulders again. “Herbs such as yours are hard to find here. This smells so exotic, they are worth the price of the shawl and more.” She held a stem of lemon balm to her nose and sniffed.

I smiled at the ordinary comments about herbs. “I sometimes put that in tea, and I use lots of it in bouquets because it smells so fresh.”

“Come. We must try to get you home.” Omath’s father held open the door.
I put the wooden coins in my pocket, knowing I’d need them for the riverboat, and followed my escort out the door. “What is your name?"

“Omath.”

“Like your son.”

He nodded.

I fell silent as I struggled to keep up with Mr. Omath. My muscles still felt stiff and threatened to cramp as I walked downhill. As we passed, people paused in their chores and turned to stare. I saw people looking out windows. I pretended I didn’t see. Once, Mr. Omath scowled and jerked his head toward the path behind us. I saw a shadow slip behind a building. A chill slid down my spine. “Is this part of town dangerous.”

“No part of town is dangerous, and no part is safe. You are with me. We can pass unmolested.” We turned down a flight of stairs beside a waterfall that was more falling mist than water. “Katrina does not come here alone.”

I breathed easier once we entered the stone station where I paid for our riverboat tickets. The ticket seller glanced repeatedly at Mr. Omath out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t say anything that would tell me what he was thinking. We walked down a flight of polished wood stairs inside the building then out through double doors to the quay to wait for our boat. I began to worry. What if I couldn’t get through the portal? What if the whistle or my song doesn’t open the portal? I decided to practice my song and hummed a few notes.

Mr. Omath nudged me. “Not here.”

I fell silent and watched as the quay filled with more passengers for the boat. Most of the people dressed in wool. Men wore loose fitting pants with tunics over the top. On their feet they wore high topped shoes with soft soles. The women wore long narrow dresses with shawls much like the one I wore. The crowd huddled together at the far end of the quay, as if they wanted to get as far from us as possible.

The quay began to shake and the water in the canal in front of us started to churn. I looked upriver, waiting for the boat to come into sight. It finally appeared from behind a rock face, sailing majestically between rows of buildings. The buildings appeared to be slightly smaller than the riverboat.

Mr. Omath led me forward. The last time I rode this boat, I sat near the door where I entered, but Mr. Omath led me up a flight of stairs. Forward and aft from the stairs, we found two elegant lounges with plush chairs and carpeted floors. We sat in two easy chairs facing each other on the starboard side of the boat.

I remembered my last trip. The boat had passed under a waterfall. I leaned forward. “Won’t we get wet at the waterfall on this side?”

Mr. Omath rapped on a glass window. “It’s dry here.”

I took a deep breath, feeling somewhat impatient with my taciturn guide. “What does Omath teach?”

“Properties of Energy Wave Mechanics.”

I looked around and considered my circumstances. I’d just passed from my nice solid world to this strange place. “Do you mean energy wave as compared to solid particles?”

“He teaches Properties of Solid Mechanics next term.”

I wasn’t sure this made sense. “If he can teach energy wave mechanics, I think that may be way more advanced than what we understand in my world, why do you live as you do making things by hand instead of using machines.”

“When you’ve mastered mechanics, you have time for art.”

I looked at the weave in my shawl. The woof was almost turquoise, and the warp was closer to a periwinkle blue, giving the shawl a depth of color that I’d never seen from a machine. The hand spun threads varied in thickness adding texture to the garment.

I looked out the windows on the port side of the boat. Stone buildings drifted past the windows. “How did you move the stone for the buildings.”

“Sound waves.”

“Why do you speak English the same as I do.”

“I was born in Nottingham.”

“Where are we now compared to Nottingham?”

“Next door.”

I felt my forehead pucker. “How did you get here.”

“Long ago, we knew the portals and came through to escape. We were called witches and wizards because we practice wave mechanics instead of solid mechanics.”

I thought I understood, partially. “Ah. My family fled to the colonies, but then they were persecuted there too.”

“Safer here. Everybody uses energy waves.” He swung his hand in an arc to take in the whole of the riverboat.

The boat dropped and surged forward through a series of locks until we reached the river. We sat in silence for most of the trip. I sensed that my escort was content to watch the scenery outside our window. After we passed the last waterfall down to the river and the boat righted itself, a man in a uniform set a small pot of tea and two cups on the table beside us. He didn’t speak, and Mr. Omath didn’t look at him. Once the server had disappeared, Mr. Omath said, “You may pour.”

I poured two cups of tea and began to think that for the proprietor of a bakery, Mr. Omath commanded a great deal of respect. But then, perhaps, I, with my strange clothes and being an outsider, was the one who caused people to bow and withdraw.

The sun hung low in the sky when we reached the quay where I’d arrived in this world. I wondered how much time had actually passed here, and more importantly, how much had passed at home. The deckhands tied the boat at the quay as Mr. Omath followed me down the stairs to the main deck. He nodded to a deck hand. “Wait here. I’ll go downriver with you.” He took my arm and led me toward the red and black station.

I watched the yellow footsteps painted on the landing that led toward the station.
“Sing.” Mr. Omath said. He raised the whistle to his lips and blew a long low note.

I opened my mouth. “Where has he gone? A down-a…” My voice broke. I bit my lip. What if I couldn’t sing in the right key? I tried again. “Where has he gone? A down-a down-a down.”

I placed my hand on the door handle to the station and looked at Mr. Omath.

He nodded and kept playing his note on his whistle.

I took a deep breath, stood up straight, took a firm grip on my empty basket and sang. “Where has he gone? A dilly-dilly down.” I pushed the door open. “Where has he gone?” I stepped through and fell flat on my face.

I pushed myself up off of the floor. My hand sunk into moss. I dropped back down on the forest floor and lay there, feeling profoundly thankful to be home. I came to my senses soon enough and scuttled my way on all fours backward out of the portal. Once clear of the place I’d fallen, I stood and looked for my basket. It had rolled away and come to rest against a blueberry bush. I picked it up and returned to my house. Shivering and hurting all over, I limped into my bedroom and crawled into bed.

I’m not certain how long I’d slept. When I awoke, my first thought was that I’d had a strange dream, fascinating and frightening all at the same time. I grabbed the covers to pull them off and my hand felt the blue wool shawl. I stroked the beautiful wool and thought to myself. When you enter the enchanted forest, stay on the path and don’t sing.

If you wish to read about my first visit to the place I call, across the way, here is the link: https://delindalmccann.weebly.com/blog/shadows-from-across-the-way-by-delinda-mccann

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Tony's Taverna By Delinda McCann

7/13/2018

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(This is an excerpt from Lucy Goes Home, a novel that may actually get published--someday when I get all the native names spelled consistently, chase down more commas, and find the one perfect word to make each paragraph pop.)

Chun glanced at the sign printed in Greek and in the common language over the door of Tony’s. He snorted thinking Taverna was a bit classy for the local dive. He slid through the open door. The smell of stale beer, rancid oil, unwashed bodies, urine and general grime stung his nose as he weaved his way through the crowd toward the bar. He slid around behind the bar and went straight to the sink.

Tony sidled up to him. “Hey you, what you doin’ behind the bar? I don’t want any trouble.”

The chinaman wrung out a grey dishrag. “No trouble boss. Just here to lend a hand.”

Tony made a noise resembling a fart and walked away.

Chun gazed at the crowd as he began to wipe down the bar. He paused and looked at the damp rag. I may be making this worse. He wrinkled his nose and continued wiping toward his mark.

Chun had identified three sets of people he didn’t recognize as local. His first subject was a man in his thirties sitting at the bar. The man wore the typical brown shirt of a laborer. The shirt had dirt and sawdust down the front and big wet circles under the arms. Chun snorted to himself. The threads in the shirt were new. You couldn’t begin to see through the thing. The collar was dry. Who sweats under the arms and not down the back of his neck? Chun named this prospect Dry Neck and paused in his wiping-up to fill a salt shaker. He listened.

Dry Neck leaned closer to the shoe repairman next to him. “I hear you had some trouble over on State Street today. What happened?”

“Tui and his wife left in an ambulance. They were fine in the morning, but never opened the shop after lunch.”

“They got someone to take over their business?”

“A son, but he’s at the university. Their daughter is married. Some think she and her husband can come help run the shop. She worked there before she got married.”

“How’d they die?”

The shoe repairman turned and raised his eyebrows at the man next to him. “Nobody’s knows if they’re dead or what. There’s rumors, but nobody knows. Maybe the Missus just rode in the ambulance with Tui.”

Chun moved farther down the bar, giving it a swift once-over with his rag before he grabbed a tray, set it on the counter beside Dry Neck and started to fill mugs of beer and set them on the tray.”

Dry Neck took a sip of his beer. “I heard they were robbed.” He swiveled on his chair so he faced the room. He put his arm along the bar behind the shoe repairman, raised his voice and bellowed over the crowd. “Hey, me and my friend are asking if anybody knows how the Tuis on State Street died? Were they robbed?”

Bleary eyes gazed vacantly back at the stranger. Other people turned their backs. They were as curious as the next person but didn’t want trouble.

Chun carried his tray with mugs of beer into the room just as a stranger drinking dark ale at a table near the bar answered. “Aye, they was robbed all right. Not a bit of money left in the till nor anywhere else. I heard they was poisoned.”

Tony lifted his eyes to glance at Chun. I wonder how many people in this neighborhood have any money anywhere in their business? I’ll be paying my rent tonight, then buy more beer and fish for tomorrow. I’ll be broke again by noon.

Chun passed beer to a group of men sitting in a back booth and collected their money. He paused and looked down at the man at the next table with his back to the booth. This man wore a threadbare suit jacket, but he either had a wife who knew how to give a man a great haircut, or he’d paid some serious money to a barber. The well barbered stranger said, “Times are getting tough. Nobody is safe. Not when someone on State Street can be murdered and robbed in broad daylight.”

Chun mentally named this stranger, Barber Man, then gathered empty mugs, took orders and returned behind the bar. While filling the dishwasher, he pulled out his phone and texted, “five” to his boss. He glanced over his shoulder to be certain he didn’t see anybody else who stood out as an outsider.

The talk swirled around the room. Jaden who worked at the print shop said, “If something serious happened, I don’t know what to do. Their son, Nicki, and I were close in secondary school. I should do something. Should I call Nicki tonight?”

Grandpapa E’Tun put his hand on Jaden’s shoulder. “It’s okay to call Nicki tonight. If it’s serious, nothing you can say will make a difference. Best thing is to visit him, sit quiet and let him talk. Ask him if you can help with anything.”

The stranger, Chun had dubbed Dark Ale, scraped his chair back. “I think we best be asking who did this thing to honest people. Too many people don’t want to work, taking what other people earn.”

His companion nodded his head. “It’s the same everywhere. There’s those who work hard, and those who’ve been coddled and take what doesn’t belong to them.”

Dry Neck at the bar made a rude noise. “But murder? Murder is more serious than being too lazy to work. Someone who does murder has something wrong with them deep inside.”

Grandpapa E’Tun narrowed his eyes at the talk. “It’s too soon to be saying murder, or even that they were robbed. They kept their money at the co-op bank. Most businesses are using that bank now.”

“If there’s a funeral,” Jaden said, “I want to take off from work.”

From behind the bar, Tony answered Jaden. “Don’t worry about getting time off from work. We all close-up shop for a funeral. We always close down the whole neighborhood to honor the dead.”

Barbered Man at the back table banged his empty mug on the table. “So everybody loses a day’s wages because some punk kid, with no upbringing, kills and robs their neighbor. See how the poison spreads. Seems to me to keep the poison from spreading, we need to be dealing with the rot that causes the problem.”

Dry Neck took a slow sip of his beer. “You’re right you know. This is exactly how a respectable neighborhood goes down hill. A bad element moves in and causes trouble. The trouble spreads, cutting into everybody’s profits until honest people can’t pay their rent.”

The specter of unpaid rent swept through the room whispering into hearts and minds. The crowd fell silent and looked at their beer.

Chun stood with his back to the room drying glasses, and watching the crowd through the mirror behind the shelves of beer bottles and glasses. He admired the stranger’s ability to manipulate the crowd.

Dark Ale’s companion raised his voice. “We’ve all seen it happen before in other cities. M’TK used to be the center of Midland before the bad element moved in, turning it into the worst slum the country has seen. The old emperor did everybody a favor when he burned the place. That’s the only thing to do when gangs and drug addicts take over a neighborhood, burn it down.”

Zach stood up and headed for the door. “You’re talking about something that happened a long time ago. That can’t happen now. We have laws. If Nicki’s folks were murdered, the law will find those responsible, and our prosecutors will see they’re punished.” He stomped out the door.

Heads nodded behind Zach. People looked at their neighbors. Could the prosecutors’ offices put an end to the bad times? They did before. They wouldn’t let the gangs and crooks take over a city again, would they?

“Poor kid’s too young to know how times used to be. Doesn’t really know how corruption creeps into a neighborhood. I see it happening, everywhere Midland, Portlandia, Mesa City. Honest people can’t walk down some streets after dark for fear some punk kid will beat them up and rob them.” Dark Ale shook his head.

Dark Ale’s companion nudged his friend. “Now, don’t judge the lad. You heard him. Those people who died were his best friend’s folks. He’s grieving and not thinking about the big picture here.”

Dark Ale looked into his mug. “You’re right. When folks are grieving they don’t think straight. They don’t see that action needs to be taken immediately to stop crime before it sets in.”

“And they don’t see where even good people have blind spots.” Dry Neck had turned to face the table.

Chun took his rag and started wiping down tables, curious to see where this would lead.

Grandpapa E’Tun scowled, slammed his empty glass on the table and stomped to the door. “You’re all crazy. Nobody knows what happened. Could be Tui just had a bad case of gas.” He slammed the door on the way out.

Barbered Man said, “Seems to me that the point is that things are going downhill. Punk kids run loose with no rules and no parents to make them behave. That’s the point. We’re all injured by lawlessness even if we aren’t the ones who’ve been robbed and murdered.”

Dark Ale held up his mug for a refill. “Who’s to say we won’t be the next one to be killed in our sleep. You lay down for a little nap and someone you trust slips in and cuts your throat, then makes off with your hard-earned money.”

Chun grabbed a pitcher off the end of the bar and hurried to fill Dark Ale’s glass.

Tony glanced at Chun, thankful to have backup if things turned nasty. He scowled, for a busy night, he hadn’t been run off his feet. Chun had actually been a help. He glanced toward the door hoping that Chun’s buddies wouldn’t come through and beat the crap out of the strangers and break-up his bar.

Dry Neck said, “But this neighborhood is over a kilometer from the cathedral. It’s around the cathedral that we’ve had trouble in Portlandia. Those nuns, bless their innocent souls, took in those orphans, and it’s the orphans causing trouble.” He crossed himself at the mention of the nuns.

Barbered man’s companion said, “They don’t have orphans at the cathedral here. This is where the archbishop lives, and you can’t have a bunch of dangerous smolts around someone important like the archbishop.”

Dry Neck nodded. “That’s okay then. Maybe it was river folk or someone else who killed those people.” He took another sip of his beer and shook his head again. “It’s a real problem in Portlandia. Those nuns spend half their time praying and the orphans just run wild. If it were regular folk letting this happen, you’d know what to do, but you can’t go busting up a convent and beating up nuns to teach them a lesson.” He crossed himself again.

The talk turned general, but despite the hour getting later few people left the bar. Chun thought The talk seems to have died down without going anywhere, should I head around to see the boss?

Tony had started the dishwasher again when Barbered Man’s companion called across the room. “You know, I’ve been thinking, and something seems odd to me about this whole murder and robbery thing. We don’t have orphans at the cathedral here and it’s far enough away that there wouldn’t be a problem down here. But, we do have orphans in the city, and wouldn’t you know, they just happen to live on the other side of the park-less than a kilometer from the murder.”

Dry Neck sat up straight. “I had no idea they could be that close to here. You could be on to something.” He glanced toward the door and shuddered as if wild orphans could break the door down any moment. “Do they keep to themselves?”

Dark Ale’s companion said, “We never see the smallest smolts, but the bigger ones who are old enough to be working and supporting themselves run wild all over the city.”

Dry Neck glanced toward the door again. “Why hasn’t anybody done something about them? Why haven’t they been sent to work in the harvest?”

Dark Ale asked, “What can we do? They should be working. We all agree on that, but we can’t be busting up The Compound and beating up the president.”

Chun smiled over his mental picture of Dry Neck or Dark Ale attempting to attack the president. He’d been privileged to see the president spar. He wanted to grin over the image.

Dry Neck made a rude noise. “Somebody’s got to teach orphans how to behave. But then, they may not have been anywhere near State Street. It’s a respectable neighborhood. They might prefer someplace they can get drugs.”

Barbered Man’s companion said, “It would be easy enough to teach them a lesson, but the neighbors don’t want to get in trouble with the president. They might try to protect the students.”

Dry Neck sat forward on his stool. “Good God, man. Do you mean to tell me the locals will let a group of wild animals murder their friends, and they won’t fight back?” He turned his back to the crowd and scowled at the bar. After a few minutes he turned back to the crowd. “I can’t believe that a whole neighborhood will refuse to stand up for their murdered friends. What are they, cowards? Maybe they deserve to have their shops broken up and to be murdered in their beds. I know if it were me and my neighbors I’d be taking some action to teach those criminals some respect and to go get an honest job.”

Dark Ale growled. “There’s plenty of farm jobs waiting for workers. There’s no need for good people to be supporting those old enough to work.”

Dark Ale’s companion stood and threw money on the table to pay for his drinks. “I think it was a good thing to support the orphans when they were just tiny. I even gave the local orphanage toys and clothes my kids had outgrown. We should be proud to help out like that, but those orphans have grown up now and should be paying us back for their keep. I’m all for teaching them a lesson and sending them to work in the fields.”

Dark Ale stood to leave. “There’s those that will stick up for their friends and then there’s those who need to be taught what happens to false friends.” He left with his companion in tow.

Just as the door closed behind the two men, Chun opened the dishwasher letting out a loud burst of noise. If anybody shouted for help outside the door, nobody inside could hear.

The hour grew later and the bar emptied. Finally, the shoe repairman paid his bill and commented to Tony. “Well, that was an entertaining evening.” He waved to Chun. “Hey, this place has never been this clean. Is it safe for me to leave, or will I find myself being used for fish bait by a bunch of Chinese.”

Chun grinned. “Barbecue. We’re cooks not fishermen. Dark meat is popular in the barbecue.”

The shoe repairman woke his wife when he got home. “I know I’m late, but it got real interesting down at Tony’s.” He told her the story of his evening. “So, the way I read this is that these guys are from Vanderholm since they mentioned working in the fields. They want those orphanage kids who walk past here going to school to work for them, and if anybody interferes, they’ll break up our shop. Who knows, maybe Ramon and U’Kee are the ones who poisoned Tui.”

His wife sat up and rubbed at her tired eyes. “Nobody poisoned Tui except himself. His gallbladder has been bad for years, and he will eat fried fish. His poor wife had the ambulance cart him off after he ate fried fish from the street vendor at the corner of Park and Montagna Streets. Tui was moaning and carrying on something fierce, thinking he would die and calling out to the Blessed Virgin Mother to pray for him.” She plumped her pillow and sat scowling into the dark for a minute or so. “Still, we might be wise to not be around when the students walk by on their way to school tomorrow. We’ll go visit Tui in the hospital and not open after lunch until closer to three.”

“I suppose you’re right. I need to pick up some more grommets anyway. We’ll visit Tui then stop by Metal Supply on our way home.”

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Missy: Narrow Escape By Delinda Mccann

7/7/2018

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(This is a bit of an afterward to my upcoming novel Lucy Goes Home. After putting up with Missy and Carl all through that book, I couldn't resist the temptation to terminate their relationship. The events mentioned in this story are explained in full in the novel.)

Missy

Missy looked in her mirror and thought she looked particularly pretty in her pink top and shorts. She pursed her lips, smirked at herself in the mirror, and flipped her long dark hair over her shoulder. She picked up her phone and typed a text to Carl, her fiancé. Has RE agent called? Are we clear to close on house? Meet me at train station at 11:15. Let’s do lunch in Portlandia & shop for furniture. Papa says new shipment in from Italy. Love and Hugs. M.

With her head full of settees, side tables and easy chairs, she shoved her phone in her pocket and ran downstairs for breakfast. She opened the door to the dining room. Her whole family sat silently around the breakfast table, not even looking up when she entered. She moved to the side board and glanced in the mirror behind the buffet where she slid cheese and fruit onto her plate. Even Uncle Leroy was home. She scowled trying to remember what the driver who picked her up from the train yesterday had said about Uncle Leroy. She’d tuned the driver out as she tried to decide what color to paint her new dining room. She gave up trying to remember and put some grapes on her plate. Really, people shouldn’t expect an engaged women to think about their worries when she had so many decisions to make, and her new in-laws would be just waiting to criticize any mistake.

She set her plate down beside her mama. “My finals were really exhausting. I think I had to sing for almost two hours for my oral exams. They just kept throwing more music at me and telling me to sing that. I think I did fine.” She ate a grape with her fingers then wiped them on her napkin. She expected someone to praise her for finishing university, but nobody spoke. She shrugged then remembered her errands for the day. “Mama, I hope you don’t have anything planned for me for today, because Carl wants to go shopping for furniture this afternoon.”

Papa growled and tossed his folded paper toward Missy. It landed in her plate. “Can you explain this?”

Missy scowled at her papa for messing up her breakfast, picked up the paper and began to read.

Mr. And Mrs. Jean Fortenac together with Mr. And Mrs. C Vanderholm, are pleased to announce the engagement of their children Miss Collette Fortenac to Mr Carl Vanderholm Jr. The couple plans…

Missy reread Mr. Carl Vanderholm Jr., let out a shriek, and left the table. Stumbling and bumping into furniture on her way, Missy ran for the privacy of her room. Taking the stairs two at a time made her heart pound enough that blood returned to her brain. She slammed her bedroom door and pulled out her cell phone. Her first impulse was to call Carl. What if he refuses to answer? She kicked at a footstool then threw herself on her bed. Her mind raced. Who can I call about this?

She scrolled through her contacts until she came to Henry Fortenac, Carl’s best friend and Collette’s older brother. She punched speed dial.

“Missy? What’s up?”

“Did you get home okay?” Missy remembered her Uncle Leroy telling her, if you get someone answering simple questions first, they’re more likely to answer when you ask the big question.

“Yeah. No problem.” Henry raised his eyebrows at Carl, who was sitting beside him.

“How did your finals go?”

“Fine.”

“I was absolutely exhausted when I got out of mine. I came home and went straight to bed and just got up. Somebody said something about riots?”

“Uh. Not riots. President Morelli ordered a purge on the prosecutor’s offices.”

“Oh no. I didn’t hear the details. Was anybody we know injured? What about Derran? He’s doing his internship.”

Henry rolled his shoulders and grinned his lopsided grin, feeling pleased to know more about the latest news than Missy did. “Yeah. Morelli ordered the purge, but some traitor tipped off the army, so Morelli’s militia walked into a trap. I think Derran is okay. Nobody in the capital was killed except for a couple militia.”

Good. Henry had turned chatty. “Oh that sounds horrid. I better call Lucy right away and see how Derran is.” Missy’s heart pounded. “So, is Carl really going to marry your sister?”

“Um…yeah…listen, I can explain.”

Missy felt lightheaded and just wanted to get off the phone. “I really want to go and call Lucy to check on Derran, and then I should check in with Caroline to see if she got home okay.” Missy disconnected the call and hurled her phone across the room. It hit the wall and dropped to the floor with a cracked screen.

Henry disconnected and stood staring at his phone.

Carl watched him. “What did she say? Was she really angry?”

“Um, no. She was more concerned about the purge and …” Henry shrugged not wanting to tell his best friend that the woman he’d been screwing for the past three years was more concerned about another man than her fiancé…ex-fiance. He bent over to tie his shoe and hide his face from Carl. Missy had every right to be angry over the announcement in the paper, but she didn’t care. Was there something Carl hadn’t told him?

Missy lay on her bed too immobilized by fury to move or speak for at least an hour. She never ever wanted to see anybody ever again, never. How could she hold her head up in society? She could easily kill Carl. Maybe poison him. Yeah, poison in his whisky or maybe an uncut hit of heroin would look like an accident. Her papa had been angry this morning. He’d be even more angry if he knew she and Carl had been making love every chance they got. How could Carl break off their engagement? He hadn’t even had the decency to do it in person. She kicked the bed and thought about screaming into her pillow. Should she just get drunk for the next year ‘till this all blew over? How could she face her friends? What would Miss Perfect Lucy with her faithful fiancé say? Missy slitted her eyes and sat up. Lucy would say something kind and understanding. I’m so sorry for your hurt. Is there anything I can do? Missy’s lip curled. “Oh yes, Miss Lucy there is something you can do. I’m going to hide out at your mountain resort where I won’t have to face anybody, who is anybody.” Missy tossed her head and slid off her bed. She smiled. Not only was Lucy’s house a good place to hide out, Carl hated Lucy for being smarter than him. She’d have to make sure he knew where she went.

An hour later, Missy, dressed in jeans and a blouse layered over a tee, rapped on the door to her papa’s study.

“Come.”

She entered with an envelope in her hand and put it on his desk. “This is the engagement ring Carl gave me. Can you see that it is returned properly. And, this is the business card for the real estate agent. I put money down on that house. Can you see that I get it back?” She glanced sideways to see her Uncle Leroy, one of the most famous prosecutors in the country, watching her.

He leaned forward, “You entered into a purchase agreement to buy a house with Carl?”

Missy nodded.

Her uncle grinned. “This does constitute a legal contract, more than an engagement. Can I sue them?” He rubbed his hands together. “I love taking the Vanderholm's ill gotten money away from them in court.”

Missy scowled at Uncle Leroy. “I’d rather that people didn’t know I got dumped. I’m going to stay with Lucy McKinsey and help her plan her wedding.”

Leroy grinned broader. “Good choice.” He rubbed his hands together. “If you don’t want to sue, we can still do damage control. What about? You suspected Carl’s family had a role in the recent attempted purge on the prosecutor’s offices and refuse to align yourself with a bunch of crooks. For your safely, we aren’t making public statements about your whereabouts.”

For the first time in her life Missy looked at her famous uncle with something like admiration. “Um, can you do that?”

“Make people think you dumped Carl because his family is crooks?” Leroy chuckled. “Easiest thing in the world. Give Lucy’s family my love and tell them I’ll come visit as soon as things settle down here.”

Carl walked his new fiancé through the formal gardens at her home and half-listened as she rattled on about her finishing school in France. He didn’t understand half of what penetrated into his brain because her chatter was heavily laced with French words. He had enough problems of his own. I wonder how upset Missy is? I know her heart is broken. I really should explain to her what happened. Yeah, I’ll tell her that my parents insisted or they’d cut off my allowance, and that I still love her. She can live in the house in Littleton and we’ll…”

Missy stepped down from the train in Kun Village. For the first time since she left home she realized she had no idea how to find Lucy’s house. She looked around. The village had one street, a few buildings and a few more large trees.

The stationmaster bustled forward. “Let me help you with your bag. Is someone picking you up?”

“Um no. I’m friends with Lucy McKinsey and …”

“Oh, here’s Miss S’RA. She’ll take care of you.”

Missy held out her arms to Lucy’s older sister. “There you are. I’ve been so worried about Lucy and Derran with the purge in the prosecutor’s offices and all. I tried to reach Lucy and tell her I was coming, but she didn’t answer her phone.” She leaned closer to S’RA. “Uncle Leroy insisted I leave home immediately and said Lucy’s place is safe.” Missy had no idea that Lucy’s home had been a haven for refugees from the previous government.

S’RA nodded once. “Let me get these medicines shipped off then my assistant can run you up the mountain.” She bustled off to pass some boxes of natural medications to the train conductor, then returned to introduce Missy to the boy who could take her to Lucy.

Missy scowled at the ancient truck and the spotted young farmer.

S’RA said, “He’s a student at our school and interested in learning music and acting.”

Missy gingerly climbed into the ancient, rusted Chevy truck. It seemed clean enough inside—dusty, but no fast food wrappers.

The young driver started the engine, let off the brake and started talking. “I’m Hau. Mr. Kenny is teaching me to sing. I saw them do Fiddler on the Roof and decided right then and there that I wanted to be in plays. I have to learn to read, but Miss Ruth has been helping me. You should hear Miss Ruth sing. She took lessons from Johan Puloski…”

An hour and a half later, Hau stopped his truck in front of Lucy’s house. “…says we’ll start a new play this week. I don’t know what it is yet. Everybody was waiting for Lucy to get home before they decided.”

For the hundredth time since she’d left the village, Missy wanted to put her fingers in her ears to shut out the flow of words. She prepared to slide out of the truck.

Lucy’s front door flew open, and Lucy ran out to the side of the road. “Missy, what on earth? S’RA called and said you were on the way.”

Missy let Lucy give her a hug. “How’s Derran? Did you get home okay? Did you learn about the purge in time?”

Lucy nodded. “Barely.”

Missy squeezed Lucy’s arm. “Good. I was so worried. I went straight home. Uncle Leroy said I should come here because I might not be safe at home.” Missy tried to make her eyes look big and frightened.

“I called Uncle Leroy after S’RA called and told me you were on your way up.” Lucy looked away wondering for the ten thousandth time how much of life was a lie and if she could ever stop lying. “He explained about you breaking up with Carl. If you even suspect the Vanderholms were involved in the purge, I can’t blame you for wanting out, but the family can be savage if they think you embarrassed them.”

“Oh they quickly made up a story about him being engaged to Collette Fortenac.”

“I heard about that, but your friends will all know the truth. Where do you want to stay? I have a guest room. We have rooms at the lodge, and Grandpapa has rooms. At Grandpapa’s house you can have a suite. The Corbains are at the lodge.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

Lucy’s heart sank.

Carl hung over the toilet vomiting up last night’s whisky. I’ll call Missy today and tell her how drunk I was last night because I miss her. He rubbed at his crotch. No wonder I had to get so drunk last night, I haven’t gotten laid in days. I’ve got to see Missy.

Missy stood on a high hillside and looked out across the mountains, wondering if she’d go crazy trapped in such a desolate place. “That boy who gave me a ride up here said something about being in a play and seeing Fiddler. Who does plays?”

Lucy bent and picked up a piece of lichen off the rock, playing with it with her fingers. “Our school put on Fiddler. We have a director, Mr. Ellis, who is looking over more material. I keep suggesting something simple like silly melodramas, but I always get outvoted by my sisters who love musicals. We’ve talked about doing some operas, but really, the girls need more voice training before they can do something that challenging.”

Missy kicked at the scrubby grass. “Would you like me to evaluate where they’re at and suggest what they need next. Half of singing is doing exercises and the other half is breathing.”

Lucy smiled and started walking down the mountain. “If you’d like. Once you’ve toured the wind farm, high valley and the hot springs, there isn’t much to do here, so if you don’t want to go crazy with boredom, you’ll have to find something to keep you entertained.”

Missy immediately saw the wisdom of Lucy’s comment as boredom loomed over her at the very mention of touring a wind farm.

Carl called Missy’s number expecting her to answer immediately. He had no idea her phone lay on a bed in Lucy’s guest room while Missy wondered how long it would take to lose her mind from boredom as she trudged behind Lucy toward the wind farm.

Carl stared at the phone when it went to voicemail. Missy hadn’t answered. Maybe he’d dialed the wrong number. He called again, and again got sent to voicemail. “Missy, sweetheart, we have to talk. I know you’re upset. I was so upset when I got your ring back I drank most of a bottle of whisky until I passed out.” There, that should bring her around. I should do something nice for her before we go to bed. I know, I’ll take her to dinner in Portlandia then we can go out to our yacht and have sex. Carl rubbed his crotch in anticipation.

Missy dropped into bed that night without looking at her phone. She rubbed at her back and wondered what part of her body hurt the most from hiking up and down the mountain. Mrs. Millicent Corbain had found her after dinner and urged her to sit in the hot pools to relax her muscles. It’s good I brought my bathing suit. If I have to hike as much as I did today, I may spend half my time soaking in hot pools. I think I have a blister on my foot. She fell into a deep sleep.

Carl tossed and turned. He hadn’t lived this long without sex since he was fifteen and started banging his sister’s nanny. He’d tried relieving himself, but it wasn’t the same. Tomorrow, I’ll call Collette. If I can’t talk Missy around, Collette’s my fiancé and she should start delivering. Maybe Missy’ll answer her phone tomorrow. She must still be on her bed crying. He felt a twinge of compassion for the weeping Missy. She must be heartbroken. I’ll stroke her hair and say I love her and how I’ve been so angry with Papa. That will make things right with her, and we can move into our house in Littleton. She’ll be so happy with keeping house and being in bed with me that she won’t mind when I marry Colette.

The sound of boys laughing drifted in through Missy’s second floor window and woke her. She squinted at the clock in her room. Scaly. It isn’t even seven yet. She staggered into the hall and met two girls she’d seen last night but she couldn’t remember their names.

Before eight, Lucy led, the still sleepy, Missy across the road to the big house. “Come on. I promise there will be hot tea. It’s a little chilly outside, so we’ll eat inside this morning. Usually we cook and eat outside.”

“Who cooks?”

“We all do. Grandpapa insists that we all must learn to cook. Don’t let him know you’ve never cooked, or he’ll have you chopping onions and grinding beans.”

Missy grimaced at Lucy and followed her to the big house and through the buffet line, then sat at a table with her back to the windows. She sipped her tea and poked at the berry cobbler in front of her. A door banged closed behind her. She jumped, startled by the noise.

A rich baritone began to sing, “To…dream.” He held the first full, perfect, round note longer than the music required.

Missy turned toward the door. Lucy’s brother, Kenny, stepped up on a chair. “…The impossible dream…”

Missy’s mouth dropped open.

Kenny lightly stepped up on the table, threw out his arms as if to embrace the whole world and belted out, “…to run, where the brave dare not go.”

The world disappeared around Missy as she hung on each perfect note of the song she knew was challenging to sing. How had she ever believed that she could live her life without being surrounded by such beauty and perfection? Here was life. Here was majesty. Here was everything that mattered.

Lucy glanced at her brother standing on the table and took another bite of her cobbler. She closed her eyes and savored the sweet-tart taste of the rare treat. She opened her eyes and smiled at Kenny’s command of his song. She glanced at Missy. After years of caring for younger children in the orphanage, her hand reflexively closed around her napkin folding it into a point to reach out and wipe the drool from the corner of Missy’s mouth. Lucy caught herself just in time.

Kenny finished his song and leapt to the floor with the grace of a dancer. Missy continued to stare.

Lucy brushed a strand of hair off her cheek and said, “I guess we’re doing Man of LaMancha next. I wonder who wants to play Dulcinea?”

“Me.” Missy stood. “I’ll play Dulcinea.”

Carl scratched his crotch as he went in search of breakfast. Surely today, Missy’ll forgive me for getting engaged to Collette. I know she’s heartbroken. I’ll tell her we need to close on our house in Littleton. That’ll make her happy. He went down to breakfast with visions of a naked Missy dancing through his head.

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The funeral By Delinda McCann

6/29/2018

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Life is full of sad days. Some are sadder than others. I woke in the dark and mentally went over my arrangements for my husband’s memorial. I had the music selected. His business partner and our son-in-law would speak. Our youngest daughter volunteered to read scripture. The caterers had confirmed.

I hauled my body out of bed and went searching for my lists. I’d mailed reminders about the time and date to those I thought would feel left-out if they didn’t receive extra attention—mostly his family. I counted the number of replies against the numbers I’d given the caterer. I showered, did my hair up on top of my head and wished it was thicker, or had more body.

The sky grew lighter, but thick heavy clouds hid the sun. The clouds looked as dark and heavy as I felt. I skipped breakfast, feeling too heavy and weighted down to eat. I dressed in black—black stockings, black dress. My good black pumps felt loose on my feet. Had even my feet lost weight over the past three months as I watched the love of my life or the bane of my existence, depending on his mood, drift away to a new world and a new reality?

The time came for my son-in-law to pick me up. We took my car because my children would need their rental to return them to the airport at the end of the day. I’d drive home alone.

We rode in silence to the church. The pastor greeted me with a hug and took me to her office to coordinate the last minute details and have a time of prayer. My children joined me and passed around more hugs. The ravaged grief on the faces of my beloved children hurt almost as much as the raw exhaustion around the empty bleeding hole inside me.

I opened the door to the pastors office and stood where I could see my my husband’s brothers arrive, but they appeared to be late. My closest family huddled around me. Finally, five minutes later than we were scheduled to start, I shrugged and turned to the pastor. “We can’t wait longer. Other people have commitments later. We better get started. They’re probably stuck in traffic.”

The service was lovely. The choir outdid themselves on a gospel arrangement of Glory Land. The eulogies were perfect. I turned, hoping to see my husband’s brothers. Surely, they would want to say a few words about their brother. They hadn’t arrived. My brother spoke about what an excellent brother my husband had been to him. Friends, clients, and coworkers took turns saying kind words. Finally, the trumpet player stood, held his horn to his lips and signaled the end of the service and the end of a life by playing Copeland’s Fanfare for a Common Man. Now, I had only the reception to get through.

We recessed. I stood to receive guests with my daughters. My eldest took my arm to guide me to the correct place to stand. “Where are the cousins from Dad’s side?”

I looked at the approaching crowd. “Didn’t they arrive? His brothers aren’t here. Something terrible must have happened on the way here.” I pictured a car accident or a heart attack. Maybe they ran afoul of a mass shooter on a freeway overpass. It must be something horrible to keep his family away. I twisted the lace on my sleeve. I had given them the correct time and address, hadn’t I?

My son-in-law stepped behind me. “Give me your phone, I’ll call so we know what happened.”

I smiled and hugged neighbors who tried to say comforting things on their way to the buffet. I tried to hear my son-in-law on the phone. “Oh. Oh, I understand. We expected…we were just worried.”

I hugged friends from our brunch group at church. My son-in-law leaned forward. “Hal’s at a golf tournament. He doesn’t know where his kids are.”

I nodded and wanted to scowl, but turned to hug my niece. “What a comfort to have you here today.”

“He was always there for us.” My niece moved on to be replaced by a former client.

“He was the most caring doctor I’ve ever had. We’ll miss him.”

Another face appeared, another hug. “You take care of yourself. You’ve had a rough three months.” I remembered this face. She was one of the hospice volunteers. She moved on.

My son-in-law leaned close to me. “I just talked to Tracy. They forgot the service was today. Her folks went to a company picnic.”

My eyebrows flew up as I realized that the people I worked so hard to comfort, the people closest to my husband, hadn’t bothered to show up. I plastered another smile on my face and hugged my cousin.

“You brought our family a good man. He fit in so well with our craziness. I loved his laugh.”

I briefly felt a little warmer.

“You look tired. Give me a call if you need help with any chores.” Our contractor who’d built ramps for the wheelchair squeezed my hand.

“When I’m more rested, I’ll want the ramps taken down.” I smiled again and glanced down the line of people who were waiting to speak to me. I knew they were wishing they knew what to say. Nothing anybody says makes a difference. Being present was all I needed from them. Glancing at the line, I saw more cousins, then a group of people from the clinic. A familiar-sounding laugh caught my ear. Spots danced before my eyes. I focussed on the group of people from the clinic. There, in unrelieved black, with a black hat at a jaunty angle on her head stood the woman who’d slept with my husband ten years ago. How dare she show her face here, laughing and flirting with the men around her.

“When was the last time you had anything to eat?” A second-cousin stood in front of me.

I tried for a social smile.

“You’re dead on your feet.” He stepped forward, grabbed me around the waist then bent down to get his arm under my knees.

“Oh. Oh no. I don’t need to sit.”

He picked me up, then turned to his wife and said, “Kami, get her a plate of food. She’s ready to pass out.”

The president of the women’s association at church rushed forward. “Here, set her over here.” She waved toward a table with a centerpiece of real flowers. “I was wondering when she was going to collapse. We have a plate for her in the kitchen.” She pulled out a chair at the table close to the buffet.

Alice from the woman’s group bustled around finding me some silverware and a napkin. “I’m going to get you some coffee. You don’t have a lick of color in your face.”

Mary set a plate of filled with ham, fruit salad, pasta salad, scalloped potatoes and a roll in front of me.

Carrying on by myself, I was accustomed to. Having people notice my distress and wait on me demolished my defenses, and tears leaked down my cheeks. My best friend from college sat beside me and took my hand. “Hang in there. You look exhausted.”

I leaned close and whispered. “That Whore is here, black hat, loud laugh. Keep her away from the girls. I’d rather not do a scene.”

“She’s just here to stir up drama.” Ruth stood and made her way to my daughters still in the reception line. “Times up, you girls need to sit. You’ve had a rough few months trying to work and help your mom.” She turned toward her husband. “Honey, get your face out of the food and get something for these girls.” With an arm around each of my daughters, she herded them toward a table of cousins about their age.

Family and friends rushed forward to wait on my daughters. The reception line disappeared, and I felt a cup of hot coffee being shoved into my hand. “My God, you’re pale.”

I nodded. “I think it finally hit me that the caregiving is over. I’m exhausted.” I turned to my plate. People filed by, giving me hugs and kisses while I ate.

Ruth abandoned me for a few moments, but another cousin took her place. “Okay folks, let her eat in peace for a few minutes.”

Much to my surprise, I cleaned my plate. I set down my fork and turned to greet one of the doctors from my husband’s clinic. Much to my horror, The Whore stood behind him waiting to speak to me. I could hear her talking to the person behind her. “We were really really close when I worked there. When I heard he passed, I was so shocked. I didn’t know he’d been sick, so this is all so fresh for me.”

I suddenly felt old and fat and saggy. My carefully chosen dress that looked so chic when I tried it on in Nordstroms, felt frumpy.

My pastor put her hand on my shoulder. “I need to see you in my office. I can’t put this off any longer.”

I stood and dumbly followed the pastor to her office. She closed the door behind us. “Ruth told me about the problem here. Have a seat. You don’t need those kind of reminders today.”

I sat, and she handed me a box of tissues. “I understand his family didn’t show.”

I shook my head. “Probably didn’t want to come inside a liberal mainstream church.” I tried to smile as if making a joke. “I suppose this is their way of breaking off all contact with me and the girls.”

We chatted for a few minutes until we were interrupted by a knock on the door. My daughter stuck her head in the door. “We’re off to the airport. Do you have keys to your car? Can you drive yourself home?”

I nodded and stood to hug my children goodbye.

“Bye the way, Mom, don’t worry. We wouldn’t have given The Whore an opportunity to draw more attention to herself.” They ducked out the door and hustled to their car then for the planes taking them to their homes.

Finally, the weak sun that had hidden behind the cloud cover all day sunk below the horizon. Friends, family and enemies went home. My brother walked me to my car. His wife tucked a plate of leftover food into the back seat. “Are you sure you can drive?”

“I’m tired, but there won’t be much traffic, and it isn’t that far. I can make it.”

Moments later, I pushed the button on my garage door opener and parked my car beside my husband’s truck, then realized I had absolutely no idea how I’d gotten home. I shuffled into the house, turning my ankle once in my high heels. I set the plate of food in the refrigerator.

“Can I eat that?”

I looked up at the shadow standing in the hall. “No. You’re dead.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are dead. I just had a lovely memorial for you. About one hundred people came—mostly from church. Now, you’re dead. Move on.”

“I don’t feel dead. I was sick, but I got well.”

“Your brothers and their kids didn’t come to the service.”

“I told them I’m not dead.”

“Believe me. You’re dead. Now move on.”

The shadow turned toward the hall. “You’re a crazy old woman. I’m not dead.”

“You’re dead. I’m not going to argue with you any more.”

I heard his feet shuffling down the hall or was that just my imagination and the settling of an old house?

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