The breath caught in her throat and stalled there while she tried to swallow around it. “I guess not yet,” she whispered and carried the box and the cello back to the house.
It was raining when she woke on Wednesday. She brewed coffee, finished off a container of yogurt, then emptied the refrigerator of all its contents and dialed back the temperature. At six-fifty, the Toyota pulled out of the driveway, its hatch and backseat fully loaded. She noted the time and calculated: eight and a half hours of driving, half, maybe an hour of stopping time. Home by four thirty, a quick shower, rehearsal at six.
She had just enough time.
The rain did not let up, and her pace dragged. Three hours away from her apartment she felt a menacing thump from the rear passenger side of the car and pulled into the first roadside rest she found. By then the tire was a black rubber pancake. Callie leaned back against the car, drenched, crying and swearing.
“Damn, damn, damn. Not now. Shit. Not now. Shit, shit, damn, shit, shit, shit. Rats.”
She walked over to the sheltered picnic tables, called for roadside assistance and waited. The minutes dragged – a quarter hour, half, forty-five minutes – while she stared up the road at each approaching vehicle, hoping to see AAA. When he finally arrived the young man was able to change the tire in almost less time than it took to retrieve it from beneath her belongings. Finished, he and Callie put her things back in the car, took care of some paperwork and said goodbye.
She was forty-five minutes up the road when she remembered the box of ashes sitting on the picnic table. She remembered carrying it from the car to the shelter while she waited. She remembered listening to the rain pounding on the roof, staring at the box, aching for the five-year old she had been and the woman whose presence had been reduced to the contents of a quart-sized container. And she very distinctly remembered walking away when the mechanic arrived and not going back.
“Oh, damn,” she said, pulling onto the shoulder of the highway. It was raining hard and she sat watching the fat drops splashing off the hood of the Toyota, doing travel calculations over and over in her mind, as if recalculating often enough would somehow alter the result. Finally, with a sigh, she turned the car around and headed back.
Susan Pigott wrote her first short story in Mrs. Johnson’s third grade class in Charlotte, N.C., and published it there, complete with illustrations by her best friend Millicent. We don’t know what happened to Millicent, but since then Susan has been a banker, affordable housing developer, college professor, journalist, perennial wrangler and church administrator. She lives in Mechanicsburg with her husband, their cat and the black snake that overwinters in their basement storage room.
The Surprise Party
By
Carol A. Lauver
“Happy birthday Enid, you’re ninety-two years old today,” she said smiling to herself.
The last ten years were etched on her face like tree roots. Red had always been her favorite color. She was wearing varying shades that glowed in her hair, toenails, and fingernails. “Ravish Me Red” lipstick by Revlon adorned her mouth. Her favorite house dress had red roses on a navy background. She glanced in the mirror and saw herself still in her twenties, beautiful and vibrant. Breakfast was to be long-cooking oatmeal and hot chocolate made with cocoa powder, milk, and sugar.
Today was not only special for her, but she was planning to surprise her twin sister Ethel with a birthday party. Her husband Horace hadn’t been let in on the secret because he had loose lips. After seventy-two years of marriage, he forgot a lot and wasn’t helping anymore since he became ill.
“Ethel will be shocked,” Enid thought. Enid pictured the look on her face: the same look Ethel had when they were five years old and their mother surprised them with a pottery glass children’s tea set. The set was imported from Germany and carefully packaged in a cardboard box. On the box lid in red and blue was a picture of two girls and their dolls playing with the tea set. Inside the box were a tea pot, sugar and creamer with six cups and saucers. The most beautiful red flowers and green leaves with blue trim were painted on each piece. That was the best birthday and gift they ever had. The following year their mother died of pneumonia. Both girls were never the same after her death. They visited her graveside everyday after school to tell their mother stories about their day. The loss of her was difficult and painful. Their father never recovered from her death and fell into a deep depression. He raised them the next fourteen years with a heavy heart. One day, without warning, he joined his wife.
Enid had caught Horace’s eye at the bank one day and he was smitten. She was tall, thin, and striking at the age of twenty. Horace didn’t waste any time in offering a marriage proposal to Enid. She accepted with one condition that Ethel would come and live with them in their Victorian home. Horace had no problem with Ethel moving in and giving his wife a hand and companionship while he was away at work. The exterior of the house was brick red with navy shutters and a heavy wooden door. This was her dream house to be filled with the laughter of children. Enid’s pregnancy was a joyous time for the three of them. Ethel was happy again, looking forward to becoming an aunt. She felt as if she were having the baby. Horace and Ethel were planning a surprise baby shower. Everything was in place and then the unexpected happened. Enid tripped on a loose floor board and fell down a flight of stairs. Instead of a joyous time the house was filled with tears and mourning. The still born baby was buried next to their beloved mother. After years of trying and the disbelief that she would never be able to conceive, Enid finally accepted the doctor’s diagnosis. Life went on. While Horace worked, the twins stayed at home cooking, cleaning, sewing, and organizing the church bazaar. No matter what the weather the women continued their childhood ritual of visiting the graves of their mother and baby Edith.
Enid took out her notepad and listed Ethel’s favorite foods: roast beef, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, Brussels sprouts, and coconut cream pie. After checking the pantry and refrigerator she needed to go out to the garden and pick the carrots and Brussels sprouts, cook the meat, and later clean, cut, and boil the potatoes. Once all that was done she would make the pie. Everyone loved her pies. For the church bazaar she would make a dozen pies. Parishioners would line up in anticipation of buying one of her famous pies. Enough self congratulation, she needed to get busy. She slipped into a sweater, grabbed her red and blue woven basket, and opened the kitchen door. The garden supplied most of their vegetable and herbal needs. The growing season already peaked. Enid hoped there would be enough for today’s dinner. The weeds scratched her bare legs as she walked through the sparse garden.
“Good,” she mumbled to herself, “three carrots and ten Brussels sprouts left. This will have to do.”
She felt a little dizzy bending over. It was time to take her vertigo medicine. The neighbor’s gray tabby cat, Mr. Jingles, raced over for a pet. Enid loved cats and cats loved her. She wished she owned one but Horace and Ethel were allergic to them. Back in the house, she lifted out the vegetables from the basket. Later she would pick a bunch of mums, Ethel’s favorite. They would look festive on the dining room table.
Enid and her sister always said, “The best part of the meal was the dessert.” She set to work getting out the ingredients: half and half cream, two eggs, white sugar, all purpose flour, salt, coconut, vanilla extract, a pie shell, frozen whipped topping, a medium sauce pan, and measuring spoons and cup. The smell of the ingredients overwhelmed her senses and evoked memories of her youthful days with Horace. She had loved him so much. She missed his sense of humor and his playfulness. Now he sat in his wheelchair reading a book or newspaper. He had no need for conversation, just a nod. Ethel sat in her wheelchair looking into space. She refused to visit mother and the baby. There was nothing she could say to change Ethel’s mind. The house was as quiet as a morgue. But Enid was still grateful for the company. Maybe today the celebration would spark a birthday song or conversation. She was hoping today would be different.
Enid poked her head around the corner to see if her loved ones were sitting in their usual positions. Yes, the same scene had played out for years. She asked them both if they were comfortable. Did they need a cup of tea or something to eat? No nothing they seemed to say. Okay, she would continue preparing the meal. Later a bath was in order and she would put on her favorite blue satin dress with red roses.
Enid began slicing the large yellow onion. This one was particularly hot because tears filled her eyes. If someone walked in on her they would think this was her saddest birthday. On the contrary she felt needed and loved and that was all she wanted in life. She scooped the onion into the hot oil of the Dutch oven. After the onion clarified she added the roast that had been floured and seasoned. Enid browned the meat on all sides, added a cup of water and beef bouillon. Once the water boiled she would simmer the meat. The vegetables could wait a little, next was the dining room table.
The beautiful oak table and chairs were a gift from her father when she married. It had served her well over the years. She took out the red table cloth and pressed the wrinkles away with her hand. Next the blue dishes were taken out of the china cupboard and arranged on the table. Everyone had their favorite place at the table. Horace sat at the head of the table. Enid sat to the right of Horace and Ethel to the left of him. The heavy chairs had been moved away from the table, wheelchairs were used instead. Silverware, napkins, and glasses would be taken out of their resting places and arranged accordingly.
Enid was exhausted. She had been preparing for this dinner all morning. Before she lay down she checked on the roast. It needed another cup of water. It smelled delicious and Enid’s stomach growled with anticipation. She couldn’t do another task until she took a nap. The bed was unmade and she crawled in, setting the alarm for one hour. Sleep enveloped her body and she dreamed of happier times.
Enid and Ethel were five again celebrating their birthday with mother and papa. Their mother had sewn matching red dresses for her and the girls for this special day. The girls wore blue hair ribbons in their long chestnut colored hair. The four of them were sitting at the twins' play table surrounded by porcelain dolls and using the tea set they had been given. The imaginary tea was the best they had ever tasted and the dolls agreed. Everyone was laughing and having a wonderful time. The twins were singing “Happy Birthday” and serving cake. It was the best birthday that anyone could imagine.
Enid had a smile frozen on her face when the firemen found her dead from smoke inhalation. The roast that she had carefully prepared with so much love had cooked down and burned in the pot. The paramedics were unable to revive her. A small article appeared in the Briartown Gazette the next day: “Elderly Woman Found Dead with Two Embalmed Corpses. It appears that Mrs. Enid Mayfield, 92 years old and a lifelong resident of Briartown could not bear to live without her husband Horace and her twin sister Ethel Frankel. Evidently Enid had removed the deceased after their funerals and kept them at home for the past decade. The two corpses were seated in the living room in wheel chairs with newspapers in their laps. The dining table was set for the evening meal.”
Carol Lauver attributes her love of the arts from living in New York City during her formative years. She studied ballet at the Metropolitan Ballet Co., visited the world famous art museums and attended concerts. She loves to do experimental art, write, read, cook and occasionally act. Her vocation is teaching kindergarten. She is married and has one son, two cats and one parakeet.
an excerpt from
“Oops,” Said God
By
Duffy Batzer
God stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the scene playing across his office window. He gave a long sigh and the image disappeared. God closed his eyes briefly then opened them, trying to let the beautiful visage of clouds and sky that had replaced the violent escapades calm his nerves. His shoulders slumped. It hadn’t worked. Rubbing his temples he said out loud, “Peter, could you please send Adam and Eve along with Lassie the First to my office, please?”
“Of course, sir,” Peter’s efficient voice replied.
For the hundredth googolplex time, God wondered why he had created humans. He knew it made him Infinity’s joke, but really. No one had bothered to explain independent thought and free will to him. God had been in the middle of a correspondence course in Deitism and had really only created Adam and Eve as a model for what he was reading. It wasn’t his fault if, while he took a nap between cramming sessions, they had gone and eaten a node from one of the Earth’s computer antennas. He had never even fathomed that they might find it edible. Another lesson he had apparently not reached in his course: sentient beings will try anything once.
So God was stuck with the Earth and the damned smart yet determined-to-be-ignorant Homo Sapiens. He had tried to make things better. He had bent the rules and tweaked history a little and inserted an enthusiastic carpenter to try and explain to everyone how much better the world would be if everyone lightened up and loved each other more. The death toll from that had been so large that the Central Omniscient Being Council police force had come along asking questions about his intentions for this small planet. They had threatened an audit of his galactic taxes to make sure he wasn’t trying to somehow use this planet for fraud. Therefore he had to content himself with just keeping things on track until the end of what his humans called "time.” It was their problem if they wanted to make that time as miserable as possible.
I should have stopped when I created the dog, God thought, not for the first time.
As these thoughts ran through God’s head, Adam and Eve and Lassie were in an elevator on their way to his office, as ordered. Eve smoothed her skirt a bit, even though it wasn’t wrinkled. There were no wrinkles in Heaven. That did not pertain to noses though, and she wrinkled hers as Adam lit a cigarette.
“Must you?” she asked Adam. Lassie thumped her agreement to Eve.
“Well, it’s not like it is going to kill me, is it?” he replied through a stream of smoke. He slipped his lighter back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. If there was one thing Adam and Eve were, it was well dressed. Lassie figured it was a subconscious reaction to running around in fig leaves for a lifetime.
Lassie felt a headache coming on. This was the usual reaction to working with humans. She rubbed up against Eve’s leg, and Eve reached down and scratched behind Lassie’s large, pointed eyes. That was better. They were good for some pampering at least.
The elevator door opened and the original couple looked out into God’s reception lobby. The floors and wall were all clear, except the right side where there was a door and opaque brown wall, giving the occupants a spectacular view of the clouds and sky of Heaven.
Straight ahead of the elevator was a large brown lacquered desk where Peter stayed with his back to the room, looking out of the wall behind him. Lassie moved to the right and lay down in front of the door to God’s office. Eve and Adam walked to the front of Peter’s desk. They glanced out of the window to see what had the usually diligent Peter distracted. There was a volleyball game going on outside. In Heaven, this was always an interesting sport, as the players would play with wings attached. It made for some very exciting spikes. Adam cleared his throat. Peter jumped and turned quickly around.
“Oh, sorry about that,” he said as he shuffled some papers around his desk. “This is a big game. Gabriel and I have a bet on.”
“Really? Do tell,” Adam said.
Peter went slightly pink and cleared his throat. “Well if the gold halos win, I do as well. Gabe’s got his bet on the silvers.”
“And what, pray tell, does the winner get?”
At this Peter blushed even more and cleared his throat. “The winner gets to be god.”
Adam replied, “Don’t we have more than enough of those around here?”
“Oh, not God, but god,” Peter said in a rush. “Whoever wins gets to go down to Earth and put on the show next time some fanatic gets into an overzealous and/or drunken
state. I really hope I win, because I really want to outdo Gabe’s Joseph Smith performance. It’s legendary.”
“It should be,” Eve said. “It’s caused enough problems.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may. . .you are, naturally, expected.” And with that Peter went back to shuffling the papers on his desk.
God was still standing looking out the window when the trio entered. Adam and Eve sat down in the two chairs that were placed before the desk. Adam lounged back and put his feet up on the desk. Lassie went to God’s side and licked his hand. He patted her on the head.
“It looks like Peter is going to get his chance. The golds are about to pull ahead. Mary Magdalene just joined the team, and she has a killer serve.”
“Among other talents,” Adam replied. Eve crossed her arms and raised her eyebrow at him. He added, “Or so I have heard, darling. Jesus will run at the mouth if you get enough tequila into him.”
God cleared his throat as he turned. He coughed a touch and glowered at Adam’s cigarette. “On to business.” The window behind him darkened and the battle scenes God had been watching before the volleyball game had distracted him appeared again. “What you are looking at is New York City for alternative history date April 27th, 1938.”
Adam sat up and dropped his feet to the floor, leaving scuffmarks on the desk. Eve’s eyes widened. “Who in the world is attacking the United States in 1938? Did something change to give the Austrian twit a head start and advantage?”
God sighed before saying, “It’s Canada, all right?”
A laugh burst from Adam’s lips. “How did you manage to let anything between the U.S. of A and Canada get bad enough to lead to war?”
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