by Webb, Peggy
“I felt like singing this morning, Aunt Syl. It’s a lovely day.”
“A day made for love and mystery.” Aunt Syl tossed a boa the exact shade of her wig over her shoulder. “Would you come out here for a second? I need you to practice throwing yourself out a twelve-story window.”
Amy shucked her pajamas and donned an apple green playsuit. Her aunt’s request was not unusual. It was one of the things Amy remembered best about her childhood—helping with her aunt’s books. Aunt Syl had been her only family since she was six. While other girls had been playing with dolls, she had been listening to intricate espionage plots or practicing various methods of dying. Maybe that was one of the reasons she had become an inventor, she thought. All that exercise in creative thinking.
“We’re only on the second floor, not the twelfth,” she said as she walked into the sitting room.
“That’s all right,” Aunt Syl said. “Get in the window and give me a twelve-floor scream.”
“Since we’re in an apartment now, maybe we should skip the twelve-floor scream. Especially after last night’s episode with my bed.”
“Fine, dear. Now hop quickly into the window before my muse deserts me.”
“Can’t I have breakfast first?”
“Dear me, no. Clyde is stuck in chapter six. I’ve got to do something with him.”
“And so you’re going to let him jump out the window?”
“Mercy, no. I’m going to let him throw his wife out the window. Hurry, Amy, before I lose it.” It being her inspiration.
Still singing snatches of Along Came Bill, Amy cheerfully opened the window and climbed onto the windowsill.
“Head first or legs, Aunt Syl?”
“Head. Clyde’s a cad.”
Amy leaned far out the window. The morning sun was sparkling on the water. She thought it looked more like a day for sailing than a day for dying.
“How’s this, Aunt Syl?”
“Lean farther out, dear. There. That’s right,” she said as Any’s torso swung upside down. “Open your mouth as if you’re screaming. I want to see exactly how the veins in your throat look.”
Amy was well into her theatrics as Judge Todd Cunningham rounded the corner of the apartment building on his way to court.
He was already late, he thought as he glanced down at his watch.
In all his years of sitting on the bench, he had never been late. It was that crazy bed. Even after they had shut it off, he still hadn’t been able to sleep. Or maybe it hadn’t been the bed at all. Visions of China blue eyes and pink baby doll pajamas kept filling his head.
Suddenly he became aware of a body suspended in the air above him.
“Wait,” he yelled. “Don’t jump. I know last night was bad, but it wasn’t as bad as all that.”
Amy gave him a brilliant smile. “Good morning, Judge. Sleep well?”
Once more Todd had the sensation of stepping through the looking glass. “I take it you’re not throwing yourself out the window.”
“No. I’m practicing dying.”
He decided that coming from her, that sounded logical. “I should be grateful for small favors. You could have been tossing another flower box in my direction.”
“I’m helping Aunt Syl add a touch of authenticity to her book. You see, she writes mysteries—”
“Sylvia Street?” Todd wondered why he hadn’t made the connection last night then decided it wasn’t surprising. Walking into apartments with parrots on chandeliers and robots running wild and beds playing tunes wasn’t an everyday occurrence. “She’s one of my favorite writers.”
Amy swiveled her head and called inside, “Did you hear that. Aunt Syl? You’re one of his favorites.”
A head topped by a daffodil-yellow wig appeared at the window. “You’re a man of remarkable taste,” Aunt Syl called down.
Todd laughed. Modesty was not Aunt Syl’s long suit, but then, he had suspected that last night.
“I try,” he said, then watched as she drew her head back into the apartment. He returned his gaze to the woman suspended in midair. Being late had been replaced by being enchanted. “Your cheeks are too rosy,” he said.
Amy’s hands flew to her face. “My cheeks?”
“Yes. They’re too rosy for someone who is dying.”
“Don’t tell Aunt Syl or she’ll let go my legs and run to fetch the powder box.”
“Authenticity?”
“Right.”
Todd knew he should be going, but he was reluctant to leave. Amy Logan and her aunt weren’t model tenants as the Beemans had been, but they certainly were more interesting. Furthermore, Amy looked equally as good upside down as she did right side up.
“Do you need any help getting back inside?” he asked. He hoped she did. The thought of pulling her in by the legs set off all kinds of fantasies. And he wasn’t even a fanciful person. Imagine that. He felt like smiling, so he did.
“No,” she answered. “Aunt Syl has a good grip. Besides, I’m not far enough out the window to fall.”
“In that case, I’ll leave you to your dying. Good day.” He turned reluctantly and headed toward district court. Petty misdemeanors would seem bland after seeing Amy Logan dying on her windowsill.
o0o
Amy smiled as she watched Todd walk away. She didn’t know why she was smiling. Maybe it was the sun beaming down on her or the Gulf sparkling in the distance. Maybe June was meant for smiling, unlike November, which was meant for grief. She shivered at her last thought, and a chill wind blew over her spirit. Her face suddenly felt damp and clammy as it had that rainy day when Tim had been lowered into the ground.
She struggled to get her torso back through the window. “Pull me up, Aunt Syl.”
Aunt Syl tugged on her legs, and she landed with a plop on her unpolished hardwood floor. Seeing her face, Aunt Syl knelt quickly beside her.
“My dear! Did I leave you upside down too long? You look like a ghost just walked over your grave.”
“It did.” Amy jumped to her feet and strode toward the kitchen.
“Tim again?” Aunt Syl’s feather boa trailed the floor as she followed.
“I’m afraid so.” Amy opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk. “I hope we remembered to buy cereal.”
“I think you should forget the cereal for a minute and talk.”
Amy sighed. Aunt Syl was usually on another planet, but when she decided to come down to earth, she landed with a bang. If she thought Amy should talk, then there was no way the conversation could be avoided. Her aunt was as stubborn as she was eccentric.
“I’m listening,” Amy said.
“No, you’re not. You’re just going through the motions.” Aunt Syl took the milk from Amy and put her arms around her niece. “Honey, I want you to be happy again.”
“Happiness died with Tim.”
“St. Joseph’s bells and balderdash!”
Amy was startled. In all the time they had talked about this issue, her aunt had never displayed such passion.
“He was a wonderful man, Aunt Syl. We had a perfect marriage.”
“There’s no such thing as a perfect marriage.” Aunt Syl spoke with such vehemence that her wig slipped backward. “I ought to know. I’ve had five.”
“Well, I’ve had one and it’s all I want. I have enough beautiful memories to last a lifetime.”
“Pooh! Memories don’t keep you warm at night. Memories don’t take you dancing and buy you champagne.” She squeezed Amy’s shoulder. “It’s time to shut down the shrine and start over.”
“What shrine?” Amy asked, but she knew what Aunt Syl was talking about. Photographs of Tim decorated her dressing table; his pipe lay on the bedside table; his watercolors stared down from every wall.
“Indeed!” Aunt Syl crossed the kitchen and pulled down a seascape done in shades of pastel blue. “You can start with this. I’ve never liked it. Too prissy. Let’s put a rowdy Picasso up there. Ah, Picasso. Now there was an artist with
life.”
Amy rescued her watercolor and hung it back on the wall. Her fingertips caressed the painting, tracing the gentle curves of waves lapping against a sandy beach. “This painting has life. Aunt Syl. It also has gentleness and tranquility.”
“What about power and raw sex?”
“Is this still a discussion of art?”
“It was never a discussion of art.” Aunt Syl dramatically swept the boa aside and sat at the kitchen table. “It’s a discussion about men. Take Armand, for instance. Ah!” She closed her eyes and threw back her head in ecstasy. “Now, there was a man.”
Her eyes popped open and she pulled her wig back into place. “He could play my body like a virtuoso. And did. Absolutely took control in the bedroom. That’s the only time any man has ever controlled me. I had to go through four men before I found the right one.”
“I don’t intend to go through four men looking for something I don’t want and don’t need. I had everything with Tim. Everything,” she added for emphasis.
“Hah!” There was a whole encyclopedia of disbelief in Aunt Syl’s exclamation. “You forget that I see with the eyes and heart of a writer.”
“Aunt Syl, I think you should quit trying to see things that aren’t there and eat your breakfast.”
“I say eat your ice cream while it’s still in the cone,” she said, paraphrasing her favorite playwright, Thornton Wilder.
Amy was saved further analysis by the entrance of Hortense. The parrot never entered a room unobtrusively. She dive-bombed with raucous squawking and a flurry of bright tailfeathers.
“Awk!” She landed on top of the refrigerator. “Batten the hatches and Yankee Doodle Dandy. Shoot to kill, you devil.”
“Does Hortense want a cracker?” Aunt Syl asked politely.
“To the devil with crackers,” Hortense said.
“Someday I’m going to make parrot stew with the old reprobate.”
“I’m not holding my breath,” Amy said. She was so relieved with the interruption of their discussion that she could have kissed the naughty old bird. Instead, she finished her cereal.
Amy spent the rest of the day unpacking boxes and trying to fit all her belongings into the space. By the time she had finished arranging Tim’s paintings and all the tools for her inventions, her apartment looked like a cross between an art gallery and a Star Wars set.
Aunt Syl had disappeared into her sitting room soon after breakfast, and the constant clackety-clack of the old upright Remington told Amy that her aunt was deeply involved with her muse.
They both fell into their beds, exhausted, at the end of the day. They slept so soundly that neither of them heard the stir of the ceiling fan or the drip of the leaky kitchen faucet. They didn’t hear the clatter of the ancient air-conditioning system or the labored groan of the overworked refrigerator. They were deep in the land of dreams and would have stayed there until morning except for one small thing.
“Help! Murder!” a voice cried in the darkness, rudely jarring Amy and Aunt Syl awake.
Amy sprang from her bed and grabbed her hammer, while Aunt Syl sprang from her bed and grabbed a pair of garden shears. Certain that mayhem was being committed in their very own apartment, they both crept out of their bedrooms and peered into the sitting room.
“Help! Murder!” The voice was so close it chilled Amy’s spine. “Murder! Murder! Awk! Batten the hatches.”
“Hortense!” they exclaimed simultaneously.
“Murder!” she screamed back. “Holy terror, Bulldogs.”
Amy dropped her hammer and made a dive for the noisy bird. Hortense immediately flew up to the chandelier, where she continued her ominous warnings.
“There she goes again,” Amy said. “Why can’t she sleep in her cage like other birds?”
“Well, she’s jus—” A loud pounding on their door cut off Aunt Syl’s explanation.
Amy looked at Aunt Syl. “Oh, my gosh, the neighbors. Coming!” she yelled as she made a quick detour by her bedroom for a robe.
Aunt Syl tried to coax Hortense down while Amy answered the door.
“What’s going on in there?” The man who spoke had thunder in his face as well as his voice. “It sounds like murder.”
“It’s only a parrot.” Amy smiled sweetly, hoping charm would defuse his anger. It didn’t work.
“Last night it was a singing bed. Now it’s a bird. A body can’t get a decent night’s sleep around here since you moved in.” The angry man pulled his seersucker robe tighter around his barrel chest.
“Amen to that,” another voice chimed in. The speaker’s head was poked around the door across the hall, and nothing was visible except her face. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, and her wrinkles were carefully taped down with adhesive wings. “I dare say everyone on this floor has been disturbed. I, for one, plan to do something about it.” She banged her door shut for emphasis.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Amy said to the man who was still standing outside her door. “The move seems to have upset our parrot.”
“The move has upset me, young lady. See if you can’t keep it quiet for the rest of the night.” With that he marched next door to his apartment.
“It seems we’ve made enemies of our neighbors,” Amy told Aunt Syl as she closed the door.
“It’ll blow over,” Aunt Syl said.
o0o
It didn’t. Two days later Amy found herself in district court facing petty misdemeanor charges of disturbing the peace.
She sat on a wooden bench near the back of the courtroom beside an unshaven man who reeked of day-old fish bait and stale liquor. A fellow criminal, she thought. Ugh! She tried not breathing, but that didn’t work. She scooted as far away from him as possible and slouched down, attempting to make herself inconspicuous.
This was her first experience as a criminal. Sweat ran down the side of her face and beneath her collar as she contemplated a fate of swinging from the gallows or wasting away in a cell. She was only vaguely aware of the court proceedings at the front of the room.
Court droned on and on as defendants were called before the judge. Amy shut out everything except her own thoughts and the hum of fans on the vaulted ceiling. The fans did little more than stir the hot air. As morning became afternoon, the courtroom became stifling and the bench uncomfortably hard. Amy began to fidget. She was tired of looking inconspicuous and decided to listen to what was going on up front.
Pushing her damp hair off her forehead, she sat up—and looked straight into the bright blue eyes of Judge Todd Cunningham. She didn’t think judges were supposed to look that handsome in their black robes. She also didn’t think their eyes were supposed to twinkle. He gave her a solemn wink and continued the case as if nothing had happened. Amy nearly fell off her bench.
She completely forgot about swinging from the gallows as she watched Todd preside. The first thing she noticed was his quick wit.
“Walking on water has been done only once, Mr. Tudbury,” he told a man who had become inebriated, fallen into the Gulf, and created such a ruckus the Coast Guard had been called to fish him out. He had been charged with disturbing the peace. “I suggest you stay out of the Gulf unless you have a boat.”
Then she witnessed his compassion as he dealt with a terrified woman whose French poodle had been charged with trespassing in her neighbor’s rose garden.
“I once had a dog, Mrs. Canfield,” Todd said. “1 understand how you hate to put Fifi on a leash. But we do have a leash law. Sears is having a sale on leashes this week. Why don’t you check them out?”
Amy also noted that Judge Todd Cunningham was stern and formidable when he needed to be. But even as he dealt severely with an insolent lawbreaker, he always retained the quality of caring.
She was almost relaxed by the time her name was called. As she walked toward the judge’s bench she noticed that the courtroom was empty except for the bailiff, the judge, the court reporter, and her across-the-hall neighbor, the plaintiff.
Th
e afternoon sun filtering through the tall windows fell over her like a spotlight, and she stood there with her chin up and her lips pressed tightly together.
“Amy Logan, how do you wish to plead to charges of disturbing the peace?” Todd tried to keep his expression serious as he gazed down at her. She looked like a naughty child with her sweat-smudged face, damp curls on her forehead and her mouth drawn tight as a bowstring.
She stood on tiptoe and whispered to him, “What will happen if I plead not guilty?”
Todd’s mouth quivered at the corners as he tried to keep from grinning. She seemed more like a little girl who had raided the cookie jar than someone who had disturbed the peace. He leaned over the bench and whispered back, “I’ll hear both sides of the case and then make a decision.”
She bit her lower lip in concentration. “Will it take long?”
“It depends on the people involved.”
Amy turned to look at the tight-lipped plaintiff. Even without the adhesive wings of two nights before, her neighbor still looked as if her skin were stretched back toward her ears.
“In that case,” she whispered to Todd, “I think I’ll plead guilty.”
“You’ll have to speak up so the court reporter can hear you.”
“Guilty, your honor, but not intentionally. It was really Hortense.”
Todd couldn’t keep from smiling. “Just guilty will do.”
“All right. Guilty.” Looking straight into Todd’s twinkling eyes, she added in a whisper, “But I don’t like it.”
He winked at her and Amy felt an enormous sense of relief that her day in court was finally over. Being a criminal made her nervous.
“Can I go now?” she asked.
“Not yet. You have to wait for your sentence.”
Her eyes widened. “Jail?”
“No. Merely a fine.” He assessed the minimum fine and dismissed court.
“Wait,” he said as Amy turned to leave.
“You mean there’s more?”
“Yes. Have dinner with me.”
“Is that a sentence, Judge?”
“Absolutely.”
“I call that abuse of power.”
“Guilty as charged.”
He stepped down from the bench and took her hand.