Chik~Lit for Foxy Hens

by Ervin, Sharon

  Fisk cleared his throat. “There’s one more thing I should tell you before you decide.”

  “What is it?”

  “The older boy’s name is,” his voice dropped, “... it’s Charles. They don’t call him Charles or Chuck, like you might think. They call him Charlie.”

  What was one more little stroke of irony in my life? But Fisk wasn’t through.

  “My brother’s son was my nephew.”

  “I supposed he would be.”

  “My nephew named his second boy Fisk, after me. When I’m around, they call him Little Fisk.”

  I laughed. Irony is one thing but this was ridiculous. A Charlie and a Fisk?

  “And the little girl?”

  “I think it’s Mary Margaret or Mary Katherine or something.”

  “I see.”

  * * *

  The judge waived the waiting period and married Fisk and me that afternoon. Afterward Fisk let me choose the color before he wrote a check for an SUV to drive to Joplin to pick up the children. I thought of them as homeless, needy little waifs. Boy, was I wrong. They were strong, healthy, vibrant and beautiful.

  The little girl, who stole my heart with a smile, was five. Her name was not Mary anything. It was Margaret Rosalind and she answered to the whole mouthful.

  As we drove back to Oklahoma, the children’s shy facades gave way to personalities. Before long, they talked and giggled openly, and scuffled like bear cubs.

  We put them upstairs that night, our wedding night. We put Margaret Rosalind in the coral bedroom with the fireplace and the private bath at the top of the stairs, and the boys in the two smaller rooms which shared the hall bathroom.

  Fisk and I slept in Fisk’s dark masculine room downstairs. He said I could redecorate it to suit me, but it already did, as long as he was in it. Late that night, after we no longer heard feet shuffling around upstairs, we made love, twice. I was dozing when Fisk got out of the shower. He slid into bed, wrapped his arms around me and nuzzled close. I snuggled into him as he spoke.

  “You were right about me spoiling you and your high highfalutin attitude being my own fault.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t sure where this was going.

  “And I’m puttin’ you on notice. I plan to do a whole lot more of it.”

  “What?”

  “Spoilin’. You are overdue and I’m gonna make up what you’ve been missin’. You’re going to be queen. If you want something—if you even look interested—you’re gonna have it. Be careful what you ask for, because you ask and it’s yours, if it’s in my power to get it for you.”

  He had given me everything I wanted already—a home, children and a man to love me. And I planned to give him what he had missed until he got so accustomed to having love in his bed, in his house, in his life that he would be able to shout “I love you,” right out loud.

  Ms. Faye, the housekeeper/neighbor, came every day for the first couple of weeks, until my confidence took root. I discovered that I handled the children better when I handled them, literally. The insight came accidentally, when I patted Charlie’s shoulder to get his attention. Being the oldest, Charlie struggled to appear self-assured, but the moment I touched him, he curled against me, as if he needed a place to hide. Experimentally, I tried the same with the other two and they responded the same way. I don’t know if all children like physical contact, but these did.

  Maybe because Fisk and I were an unknown quantity, they obeyed me at first, but their regard waned as we got acquainted. When Fisk spoke, they leaped to do what he said. It wasn’t his size that intimidated them. They genuinely wanted to please him. They wanted him to like them. And they seemed eager to hear him say so. But he didn’t.

  One afternoon, I wrapped my arms around Fisk’s waist and hugged him hard. “Honey, you are absolutely priceless, and I mean that as the nicest compliment. But the kids and I are not. We’ve got a price.”

  He frowned.

  “We need to hear you say you love us.”

  He looked annoyed. “I married you. I made places for you and the kids in my house. I buy anything anyone needs or wants. What do you think that means?”

  I couldn’t help laughing at his male logic. “Sounds like saying those three little words wouldn’t cost you nearly as much as you’re already shelling out.”

  “That’s exactly what I am sayin’. Talk is cheap.”

  I frowned. “You do love them—us—don’t you?”

  “Hell, woman, what do I have to do?”

  I answered quietly. “You have to say so.”

  His expression darkened before he wrapped his hard-muscled arms around me and flexed. When he spoke, his words were husky and barely audible. “I’ve never said those words out loud. They don’t come easy.”

  I leaned away from him. “Does that mean you won’t say them?”

  He shuffled his feet. “I’m not refusin’. I’ll probably get so I can... sometime.”

  But that very evening—I had been running along behind Charlie’s new bicycle, building his confidence before he took off, and was dripping sweat—Fisk grabbed me up, swung me in a circle, and murmured. “I love you, Mrs. Reed. Every beat of my heart says so, even if my mouth doesn’t.”

  The words meant more, I suppose, for knowing they were such an effort for him. I threw my head back and laughed as he spun me round and round. Then Margaret Rosalind noticed and wanted a turn in his arms.

  I cut Ms. Faye’s hours to twice a week, then weekly. The boys were in school weekdays and Margaret Rosalind half a day. I did most of the housework, cooking and laundry. Fisk helped but as spring approached, he needed to work outside more.

  He assigned the boys horses and chores to do after school. I wasn’t sure they were old enough for the jobs he gave them, but they took a lot of pride in doing the work. Fisk was generous with praise, with all of us.

  While the boys seemed to bloom like flowers in the sun, Margaret Rosalind withdrew into herself. Finally, one afternoon when she and I were in the house alone—at five she only attended kindergarten half days—I asked what she was thinking about so hard.

  “Uncle Fisk gave Charlie and Little Fisk their own horses. But not me.”

  Sitting in a rocker in the country kitchen, I motioned for her to come sit in my lap. When she had crawled up and settled, I assured her Uncle Fisk loved her too much to risk letting her ride a horse when she was so young.

  “That’s not it.” She fluttered her eyelids, bravely trying to stanch the tears.

  “It’s not?”

  “No. He likes the boys.”

  “He loves all three of you, darling.”

  “No he doesn’t. He never says so.”

  Chuckling, I cuddled her close. Hearing those words probably was a girl thing. I hummed “Rock-a-bye Baby,” which was absolutely the wrong thing to do. She stiffened in my arms. To appease her, I said, “I’ll talk to Uncle Fisk about getting you a horse.”

  She relaxed slightly and in a couple of choruses of “Bye Baby Bunting,” she was asleep.

  As we sat down for supper that night, before we served the plates, I mentioned that Margaret Rosalind needed a horse to ride.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Fisk said, smiling at the child.

  She brightened. “You have?”

  “Yep.”

  She ducked her head then.

  “What else is bothering you?” Fisk asked, as intuitive as any natural father.

  “I don’t want to call you Uncle Fisk.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too long.”

  “Okay. What do you want to call me?”

  You could have heard a pin drop as we waited for her answer. I suspected the boys already knew, as they seemed less expectant. Finally she looked at her brothers and her voice was barely audible.

  “Dad,” she whispered. Then she raised her rounded eyes to Fisk’s and appeared almost defiant. “It’s a lot shorter.”

  Fisk looked at me, then at the boys and finally
back at her. “Okay. Call me Dad. What about Jan?”

  “Jan is short already.”

  I shrugged. Jan was fine. I might get promoted later. I would work on it.

  But Fisk was not through. “If we’re going to shorten names, I think we probably need to abbreviate Margaret Rosalind, too.”

  She looked suspicious. “Shorten it to what?”

  Fisk grinned. I didn’t know what was coming, but I knew that mischievous twinkle. “Because I love you...”

  Margaret Rosalind shot me an accusing look, but I shrugged and shook my head, silently denying her unspoken charge. He was sure giving that once-hard-to-turn phrase a workout.

  “I want to call you the sweetest name I know for a little girl. It’s the name of the first woman I ever loved and it’s your name, too.” Fisk shot a furtive glance at me. “I want to call you Rose.” He winked at me and grinned broadly at Margaret Rosalind who mouthed the new designation a couple of time before she nodded, agreeing to give it a try.

  “Charlie, will you ask the blessing?” Fisk said, delegating the head-of-the-house duty.

  “Yes, sir.” Charlie puffed up as if it were the finest moment of his young life. “Dear Lord, bless this food to our use and us to Your service, and thank you, Lord, for puttin’ all our feet under this table.”

  The, “Amen,” caught in my throat.

  So we began to be like a regular family. That Friday night, we stopped by the grocery store on the way home from Charlie’s baseball game. Little Fisk, whose name we had shortened to Fisky, insisted on pushing the shopping basket for me while the others went to look for insect repellant.

  He had just turned onto the next aisle when there was an awful commotion and profane shouts from a teen-age voice. I rounded the shelf to find Fisky caught around the neck by a pimply-faced kid wearing a store stocker vest. Veins in the stock boy’s neck were nearly purple as he yelled. At their feet, cans of green beans rolled in every direction, obviously part of what had once been a display.

  “Let him go.” The fury in my voice stopped Fisky’s shrieks and the bigger boy’s shouts.

  The stock boy looked startled as he saw my face. I struggled to keep a lid on my temper, but I was astonished to discover in that moment that maternal instinct is a nearly overwhelming force.

  “You his mom?” the boy asked, lowering the arm wrapped around Fisky’s throat.

  “Yes, I am.” I motioned and Fisky came, jutting his chin defiantly at the older boy.

  “I just got that display set up,” the stock boy said.

  “Maybe it’s too close to the end of the aisle for people to see it in time as they come around the corner.”

  “The location’s fine. It’s just jugheads like this kid...” Giving me another glance, he suddenly looked contrite. My jaw was popping and I was gritting my teeth. Swallowing, he brazened it out. “You should make him help set it back up.”

  “Ask him if he’ll help you.”

  Fisky shrugged and nodded. I gathered errant cans as the boys collected and restacked them.

  “I still say you need to move that further down the aisle,” Fisky said as we finished, adopting my earlier thought as his own. The stocker grunted and left.

  We caught up with Fisk and the other two near the bakery.

  My husband grinned. “We’re about to browse through the donuts.”

  I didn’t want to appear too easy. “Come on, guys, I’m tired. When you’ve seen one donut, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

  Charlie’s eyes rounded. “You never know. They might have something new.”

  Fisky and Rose agreed.

  “Come on, Mom.” Fisk’s eyes twinkled mischievously as he pleaded their case.

  “Yeah, Mom,” Charlie and Fisky chimed together.

  “Mommy, please,” Rose said, looking worried.

  Those beautiful people had no idea the years of pain they repaired in that moment by calling me that sacred name. Their eyes locked on my face, they stood awaiting my ruling on the donut matter. I had just been teasing them anyway. Blinking hard, I coughed.

  “Well...” I battled the tears valiantly. “Okay.”

  The kids stampeded to line up in front of the display cases. Fisk just stood there grinning at me. When I thought I had enough control, I met his gaze.

  He winked. “You sure are easy.”

  Laughing and crying at the same time, I collapsed into his arms. “Yeah.”

  Everyone got donuts. As we trooped to the checkout line, we heard a muffled explosion, then someone shrieked, “Oh, no,” and cans of green beans came clattering into the main aisle. Fisky and I looked at each other and whooped laughter.

  * * *

  I have learned important lessons in the last few months. First, everything is temporary. There is no guarantee of, “Happily ever after.” Charlie and I had a well-scripted, perfect life. Holding onto it was like trying to carry water in my hands.

  After perfection, I lived in misery for two years, certain the condition was permanent. But devastation, too, proved to be temporary. I only had to hang in, do the best I could, and wait.

  With Fisk and the children, I have a whole new, different, perfect life where nothing stays where I put it—not the scissors or the furniture or anything—and where the most priceless art does not grace the walls beneath portrait lighting, but hangs from magnets on the refrigerator.

  Secondly, I have learned a woman must be as resilient as a dandelion. I no longer take for granted the here and now, but enjoy each day—each moment—reminding myself nothing is permanent, even the best-laid plans.

  Thirdly, good news can also be bad news. Fisk’s sister-in-law is recovering. Fisk and I want to keep the kids but experience has taught me to enjoy what I’ve got while I’ve got it because it can vanish like a vapor.

  A philosopher said the only unchangeable thing in life is change itself. I may not like what comes next, but I will endure and even conquer it because that’s what women do.

  Like a flower, I can bloom again and again. While life is its best, I plan to stand tall, look pretty, smell nice and, occasionally, be a little prickly, whether the people in my life call me Jan or Mom or... Rose.

  GIVING UP PANTY HOSE

  by Peggy Fielding

  Peggy Fielding is an Oklahoman who spent several years outside the USA in Cuba, Japan and the Republic of the Philippines. She now lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma where she is a fulltime writer of both fiction and nonfiction. Fielding teaches writing part time at Tulsa Community College. Many of her former students have gone on to publish short stories, articles and more than 350 books. Fielding has published hundreds of articles and short stories, several nonfiction books and has sold both contemporary and historical novels. She often speaks at Writer’s Conferences and Seminars across the United States. She belongs to Romance Writers of America, The Author’s Guild, International Women’s Writing Guild, Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc., Oklahoma Mystery Writers and the Tulsa NightWriters. Visit Fielding’s web site: www.peggyfielding.com

  Chapter 1

  “Hello,” I sat up to answer the telephone before it rang again and wakened Rhett. My husband dearly loved a Sunday afternoon nap. More than I did. Afternoon naps usually left me feeling logy and none too bright. Stupid, he had called my slow-to-wake behavior. Logging more than twenty minutes in bed during daylight hours made it hard for me to come back to the land of the living in a hurry. I also get seasick on ships, boats and sometimes airplanes as well. He insisted the whole thing was just a case of mind over matter, that I could keep from getting sick if I would just make the effort.

  But I was awake now.

  What was it that the female Filipino voice had just said?

  “What?” I spoke softly.

  “Speak Rhett Prideaux, please.”

  While the young sounding woman was talking I was walking barefoot toward another room so our conversation would not disturb His Majesty. I always loved the feel of our cool, waxed, terrazzo floors under my toes so I was mos
t always barefooted at home.

  “You want to speak to my husband?”

  “I speak Rhett Prideaux, yes.”

  “Sorry. Mr. Prideaux isn’t available just now. Can I help you?’

  “Yes. You tell Rhett Prideaux that Nancy in hospital. I Nancy friend. It the baby, you tell him, please mom.”

  “What?” I wanted to laugh, or perhaps cry. What had Rhett gotten himself into now?

  “Nancy sick. In hospital. You tell him it the baby, mom.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, but the line was dead in my hand. Please God. Had my bastard husband been up to his old tricks even though we had made an agreement just a few months before? No troubles with women, either American or Filipino. He’d promised me. We’d discussed his little peccadillos among the local belles. As a matter of fact, we did agree on one thing. Filipinos, both male and female are very attractive people, small but extremely nice looking. Great skin usually, and lovely black hair. Apparently Rhett couldn’t look without touching. It appeared to me that this might be a fatal attraction for our Lord and Master if I was reading this particular situation right.

  What was that about a baby? A baby! Now that was a shock, even for a person who was fairly used to Rhett’s antics. Was that speaker saying Rhett was involved with a woman who was having his baby? Sure sounded something like that. I went back to our bedroom. I stared at the tall, broad shouldered man snoring in the bed, my bed, our bed.

  For years I’d been wildly in love with this person, thought the sun rose and set in his forehead. He’d been the cause of both pain and joy in my life for more than thirteen years now. So good looking, so intelligent, so charming. He’d always had a problem with that charm. It seemed all women, Filipino and American, were attracted to the guy. And, as he so often had said in lieu of explanation, “What could I do?” And he’d shrug and smile his charming smile, turquoise eyes twinkling, “She kissed me, honey.” It was all a game to Rhett Prideaux. When a woman kissed you it was your duty, as a gentleman. to kiss her back, he believed. Probably the old boy couldn’t help it that he believed himself to be the answer to every maidens’ prayers. I think women believed that about him, as well. Maybe it was his family background.