by J. L. Salter
And the next logical step soon became clear — the tragic epidemic of man-colds surely needed a cure.
———
*Diary of a Mad Housewife, with Richard Benjamin and Carrie Snodgress.
Acknowledgements
This manuscript, written mostly in September of 2009, got shoved aside by a flurry of publishing, promoting, editing, and other writing. All during these four years since, I’ve worried that the contest judges, agents, or editors who’d seen part (or all) of my story would somehow beat me to the punch and publish something on this topic — man-colds — before I had the opportunity. Doesn’t seem so, however.
I’m extremely grateful to my friend, Gunnar Grey – owner of Dingbat Publishing – for letting me in on the ground floor of her developing company. And I’m especially pleased that she has allowed me to work again with two very talented and personable professionals whom I know from another publisher and who also do freelance work elsewhere. They are Traci Pollitt, the perceptive content editor, and Elaina Lee, the creative cover artist. I am also indebted to John Grey for his thorough proofing of this manuscript.
I would be remiss if I neglected to mention that Theresa Thevenote’s Facebook discussion of the cushaw — the awesome monster cousin in the crookneck winter squash family — inspired me to write a particular scene in this novel. Everything I know about tofu, I learned from my wife’s second cousin, Blake J. Williams; my knowledge of hummus comes from my wife’s niece, Sharon Lenox. Also thanks to Renita Godby for her anecdote of the cat lifting her eyelids… and to Carla Lynn Shurr Hostetter for her story of the missing necklace pendant.
Special thanks to my brother, Charles A. Salter, who provided helpful, detailed feedback on the early draft he read, and to my wife, Denise Williams Salter, who read an early draft and assisted in several other ways.
My list of early readers is a long one. Those who not only read my novel, but offered helpful feedback, were: Nanette D. Scott, Sona Dombourian, Kathleen T. Smith, Theresa Thevenote, Trudy Patterson, Sharon Pullen, and Renita Godby. Other readers were Rita Roudebush Williams, Dottie Robinson Salter, Jackie Choate, Madeline Carbon, Katherine Cavendish Gibson, Linda Rushing Gill, and Sharon Warner.
I also appreciate the interest of Richard Jasper, Bella Fitzgerald, Caroline D. LeBlanc Wolf, Pamela Picard, Rebecca Salter Rod, Julia Salter Moers, Carol Ann Goin, Susan Wise, and Christine Witthohn.
About the Author
My newest novel is Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold, a screwball comedy released by Dingbat Publishing in December 2013. My published novels (with Astraea Press) are: Called to Arms Again (May 2013), Rescued By That New Guy in Town (Oct. 2012), and The Overnighter’s Secrets (May 2012). Also released through AP is a short novella, Echo Taps (June, 2013). Romantic comedy and romantic suspense are among eight completed novel manuscripts.
I’m co-author of two non-fiction monographs (about librarianship) with a royalty publisher, plus a signed chapter in another book and a signed article in a specialty encyclopedia. I’ve also published articles, book reviews, and over 120 poems; my writing has won nearly 40 awards, including several in national contests. As a newspaper photo-journalist, I published about 150 bylined newspaper articles, and some 100 bylined photos.
I worked nearly 30 years in the field of librarianship. I’m a decorated veteran of U.S. Air Force (including a remote tour of duty in the Arctic, at Thule AB in N.W. Greenland).
I’m the married parent of two and grandparent of six.
More Books by J.L. Salter
From Astraea Press
The Overnighter’s Secrets
Rescued by That New Guy in Town
Called to Arms Again
Echo Taps
Coming Soon from Dingbat Publishing
Scratching the Seven-Month Itch
Another great read from J.L. Salter
Chapter One
Drank way too much punch before I realized it was spiked — right before I passed out Saturday night…
Coming to in total darkness, my foggy brain ached and my eyes strained. Nothing but the sensation of immense space. Pinched my forearm to rule out a bizarre dream. Ouch! Final recollection before everything went black: exhausted and still desperately thirsty.
My tentative hands groped enough to establish I was still on the hard plank bench. No telling how long I'd been there — everything hurt when I sat up. Stretched out my arms. "Ow!" Splinter. Yeah, the fund-raising jail with square wooden bars. But why was I still there?
"Hey!" Ghostly echo. Completely alone in the dark. The Greene County Halloween Festival was obviously long over and the spooky former armory building clearly abandoned.
As I struggled to my feet, I also realized I'd selected a terrible outfit for a jailbreak: low-cut satin blouse almost covering the bustier which threatened to squash my innards. Plus a tight high-hemmed skirt, patterned hose, and one remaining shoe with a four-inch heel. No telling where the other one was. Yeah, I'd had the terribly original notion to come as a sexy witch — including a pointy hat and hand-made broom. Sure wish I'd worn sneakers and a sweatsuit.
So, how on earth did I get left behind? And exactly how would I get out?
"Hello?" I knew it was too tentative, but somehow it seemed yelling into that vast darkness could make me feel even more vulnerable than I already did.
Dilemma.
One of the big festival fund-raisers was to lock up attendees until someone donated enough money to bail them out. At first I was steamed to be imprisoned since I'd spent two weeks working on that stinking event. Then I figured at least I was off my feet for a few minutes. Once I sat down exhaustion took over, plus the spiked punch, of course. But that didn't explain why I was still there in the dark with everybody gone… all alone.
At least I think I'm alone. "Hey! Hello?" Louder. "Anybody here?"
Silence could be good or bad. But I wished somebody would come turn the lights on and get me out. Plus, I need a restroom. Why did I leave my cell phone locked in the car? Not that there was any point waiting on a rescue. When you wake up behind wooden bars in real life, no handsome stranger comes to your aid.
My forefinger hurt but I couldn't extract a splinter in the dark. Took off my right shoe since I couldn't walk in the dark with one high-heel. Better find the other one. Maybe later. Stood up. Oh, still a bit woozy from that long nap. Fumbled my way from the back of the jail. Straight ahead should get me to the door. Tripped on something. Oh, my other shoe. Thank goodness, those heels were way too expensive to leave behind.
Just a few more steps. Yikes! Bumped my head on something hanging from the top of the wooden jail. Maybe a light bulb! Checked. No, just something with a disgusting spider web attached that I didn't want to touch again, or think about, ever. Hate spiders!
One more step. Fingers brushed the bars of the front wall. Good. Door couldn't be far away. Sideways to the left. Nope. Other direction. Ah, door frame. "Do you remember which way it opens, Kristen?" No, I didn't. And I was talking to myself again. I put both shoes on the floor, reached one hand through the bars, and felt the mechanism. Angle was wrong. In order to flip this latch, my entire forearm (past my elbow) had to get through.
What kind of latch? Metal. I felt a handle… it moved. But the door didn't open. "What did the latch look like, Kristen?" I asked myself. A freezer door? No. Gate hasp? Nope. It was like those rental trailers. Have to lift something and swing something else to the side, or vice versa. Tried that. Okay, I could lift or swing, but couldn't do both with one hand.
"Hey! Anybody here who can help with this latch before I wet myself?" Multiple echoes. I'd forgotten how big the main armory space was. When the Tennessee National Guard used it, dozens of cargo trucks fit in there. After the local unit was combined with the battalion in nearby Nashville, Uncle Sam donated the facility to the county. "Thanks a lot, Sam. Now I'm stuck here." Needed to stop talking to myself.
Tried the latch again from the other side. Ouch. Tight fit. My left elbow must be thicke
r. Wished I hadn't drunk all that punch earlier. I should have known somebody spiked it because I'd seen lots of folks got tipsy. But I'd just said, "Whatever" and drank another cup. That's how I slept through the abandonment by my former friends and the people I'd worked with on the community extravaganza. "Memo to Kristen," I muttered, "don't ever nap in a bustier. It pinches the girls and probably leaves bruises." Ha. Not that anybody would see them. Wally the Weasel was out of my zip code and my life. Nobody else in my rented house besides Elvis the neutered feline. Even that cat was probably more romantic than Wally, AKA Walter-who's-now-ancient-history-and-I-hope-he-dies-before-I-ever-see-him-again. Hmm, sounds awful. Not a good time to scare up bad karma with another curse on the Weasel. The last curse I put on Wally had to do with shriveling up his—
Okay, it was up to me. If I flipped up that gizmo, the handle pulled the thingy out of the what's-it. Great theory. Still needed two hands. "Hey! Anybody in this stinking armory who'll let me out?"
What was that noise? Something fell over! Somebody fell over? Better be a "good" somebody. "Hey! Over there… out there. Who's there?"
"O-o-ow!" From the left of me somewhere. But what? It must have been near the refreshment area not far from my prison pen. "Who's here? If you can speak, you'd better say something real quick, 'cause I've got a big ole magnum gun pointed right at your head!" Bluff 'em, Kristen.
"O-o-ow! Stop yelling! My head's about to explode." Closer. Man's voice. Could be good news… or bad.
"Well, you'd better show yourself. And get some light over here." Take charge, Kristen.
"I don't know where the stinkin' lights are. And stop yelling." Closer… I could almost smell him.
"Don't you have a lighter or something? I thought all guys carried lighters."
He groaned a bit more. "Only the ones that smoke."
"Terrific. The one non-smoker in Verdeville has finally arrived to let me out."
"Out of what? Where are you? Ow! Crud! What is this?" He'd finally found the left side of my cage.
"I'm in the fund-raiser jail. Quit stalling and get me out. I need a restroom. Come around to the front and watch out for the…"
"Ow! Splinters!"
"…splinters."
"Thanks for the warning." He sighed so heavily I could smell his breath. He'd drunk the punch too.
"Come around and let me out."
"Where's the door?"
"Just follow the splinters and turn to your, uh, right when you run out of bars."
With a few stumbles, another splinter, and some uncreative curses, the mystery man finally reached the door. "Okay. I'm here."
I already knew that because I smelled his breath again as he panted from the exertion. "Can you un-do this latch thingy?"
"Where is it?"
I realized he couldn't see my hand pointing directly at the latch. "I'm holding it. My arm's through the bars and I've got the thingy in my hand." I realized that could sound, um, unusual if overheard by anybody. I heard his hands roam over the outside of the cage door. He was too high. I sighed heavily and gave back a whiff of punch-breath.
Suddenly his fingertips touched my forearm. He yelped and recoiled.
It startled me too, but I wasn't going to act like a sissy. "That's nearly my elbow. Go the other way about a foot or so and my hand's on the latch dealie."
"Okay. It threw me a bit to touch flesh. My fingers expected wood." Yeah, mine too.
This stranger was tall — I could tell from the source of his breath, which surely needed a mint. His hands gently explored my forearm to re-establish the location of my elbow. Then he walked his fingers the other direction, toward my hand and the latch. If he intended to grope me like this, he owed me dinner. Large hands and long fingers. Short nails. Some calluses on his fingers and the pads of his palm, but not like a lumberjack. Just a man who knew how to work with his hands but probably didn't rely on those skills for his paycheck.
"Will you get on to the latch?" I truly needed a restroom. I would have been hopping by then if I weren't worried about that spider web above.
"Well, let go of it and give me a chance at the mechanism." A slight bit of spittle when he sighed again. Not sure I wanted to share spit from a tall stranger in the dark. "Okay, I have it in my hands, but I don't understand how it goes."
I thought men could undo anything except left-handed buttons. "It felt like a doo-hicky that latches the overhead door on a rental van or something."
"Oh!" The light came on — in his head, that is. "One of those. Okay. No sweat." Two smooth movements and it was open. Of course, it took two hands like I said before. Humph.
I reached down for my shoes, quickly found them, and then pushed on the door, apparently before he'd moved away. It caught him somewhere on his trunk.
"Ooof!"
"Sorry. Like I said, I need a powder room."
He made noise backing up. "Okay, take off… for wherever."
"Where are you going to be?" Didn't want a strange man lurking in the dark.
"On your tail or as close as I can, without tripping."
"I don't want a stranger following me."
"I need to use that same facility."
There wasn't much I could do about that. "Whatever. Well, the door ought to be way over there where that exit sign is." It was the kind with three or four small bulbs normally, but that particular one had only one dim lamp glowing. The signs over the other doors must have burned out completely. They didn't spend much on maintenance in abandoned armories.
"Oh, yeah. Switch by the exit door. Makes sense."
So the tall man also had some cognitive powers. Wonder what he looks like? "Do you remember what's between us and that door?"
"Nope. Never been here before. I'm new in town. Plus, I don't know what part of this place we're at right now." His feet made a shuffling sound as he changed the subject. "So how come nobody let you out of that cage?"
"Karla was supposed to call my brother, but I guess Eric couldn't be bothered to drive over here from Marrowbone. I can't believe Ellen didn't double-check with Karla and both left me locked in that dark cage!"
"Who's Ellen?"
"Used to be my best friend. But now, she's made the top of my hit list." I'd moved forward a few careful paces as we talked. "So what are you doing here, if you've never been in the armory before?"
Another heavy sigh, from slightly farther behind me. "Long story." His lengthy story also sounded like it might be sad.
I focused on the dim, distant exit light and the restroom not far beyond it. "Yeah, well, I'd like to hear it sometime. But for now, we need to speed up before I bust open a bladder gasket." I held one shoe in each hand as I stretched my arms forward. I remembered a dunking booth against one wall and a huge overhead door nearby. Several small booths around the perimeter. A large inflatable castle dominated the middle of the space.
Whap. The shoe in my right hand grazed something. My fingers felt coarse rubberized fabric. "Found the castle. I think the area right around this is clear, unless somebody stacked something on the floor. We'll bear left to reach the corner." I sped up a bit, figuring we had a good forty feet after turning the corner of the inflatable.
Suddenly his hand touched the side of my neck and gripped my shoulder! "What the…"
"Sorry. I'm a little dizzy and my head's pounding. Just had to steady myself a bit."
"Well go steady with that castle wall. I don't want strangers groping me in the dark." Actually his touch made my heart beat faster, but the extra adrenaline didn't help my bladder any.
He'd pulled his hand away quickly. "Good grief. You act like I grabbed something."
"You did. My neck and shoulder."
"I meant something else."
Hmm. Interesting conversation. But I'd need to see his eyes before I let him anywhere near my else… or my others. "Look, buddy, I appreciate you opening that latch thing, but you don't go grabbing women in the dark." Actually, that's precisely when most men do grab women.
; He didn't respond.
When my hand ran out of castle wall, I knew it was time to turn right and head toward the distant door. I focused on the incredibly dim exit lamp, slightly nearer with each tentative step.
My left foot struck something which my outstretched hands didn't detect. Must be low. Checked it out. "Uh, there's something like a big trash can here, right in front of me."
"Where? Ow!" He found it.
What a baby. I'm the one with no shoes. But I was ruining the feet of my patterned black hose — another seven bucks down the drain. Sheesh. We were probably within thirty feet of the door now, and I struggled to remember where the registration tables were. Slowed down and reached lower. There. "Table here. Just to the right of me. We'll scoot along the edge of this and ought to be right at the door."
"Well, hurry. If you know what I mean."
I knew. My eyeballs were sloshing. Both leather pumps in my outstretched hands reached the cinderblock wall at about the same time with loud clacks. Don't know why I did this — reflexive, I suppose — but I clutched both shoes in one hand and tugged up my bustier with the other. Modesty? Vanity? Then I groped for the light switch.
He did too, around to my left. "Okay, I'm in the doorway. Where's the light?"
"Can't be far. One side or the other." I felt his hands on my left arm as we both groped blindly for the switch.
"Oh. Sorry."
"Okay. No sweat." I lied. His touch was electric. I wanted to think about it some more, but my kidneys had short-circuited my brain. "Switches are about chest high on me. It's got to be here somewhere."
I heard one of his hands whap against the wall as the fingers of his other hand grazed my bustier. Yep, that's chest high. "Hey, buddy!" As I spoke I found the switch and flipped it vigorously. It was just for the entryway. The rest of that huge space would have a whole bank of switches, probably not far away. The bright light immediately overhead made both of us shut our eyes reflexively.