A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts

by Marilyn M Schulz

  “What if I ran out of something and need it sooner?”

  He said, “I just borrow when that happens.”

  She wondered if he ever paid it back, but didn’t ask.

  Murphie went back to her project. Much of the refuse went into the dumpster for the cottages, the rest she set aside and though maybe someone could use it for kindling—it was just wood, that’s all.

  As she pulled the last of the mess away, she noticed flat hardness underneath and so dug a bit into the moss under it. It wasn’t ground, but rock—not natural, but paving stone.

  She dug a bit more . . . it opened up to a large space that was curved . . . Murphie dug faster, laughing, thinking of Fig and how the dog did the same thing.

  Eventually, she uncovered underneath . . . a fire pit. It was old, but quite serviceable. It was made of stones, but the metal grill looked a little worse for wear, and she decided not to keep it. Instead, the fire would be more like they had as kids when their parents took the kids and the dogs into the woods in back of the house for a cookout.

  They had big chunks of German bologna. At the butcher’s counter at the grocery store, it came in big slicing rolls that their mom ordered by the inch, not by pound or slices. Their mom brought containers of potato salad and coleslaw to their picnics, and marshmallows, of course.

  Murphie cleaned up a bit, then went to the store to get all the things she recalled: No bologna though, they only had the sliced kind, so she got hot dogs (no buns), red spuds, and marshmallows.

  Back home, she went down to the bushes on the beach and got some sticks worthy of roasting wienies and marshmallows. She got enough sticks for half a dozen people—that should do her for a while, or if she got guests.

  Then she thought about asking some of the others to the fire pit, but decided against it . . . for now. She was feeling nostalgic, and wanted to be on her own.

  First she built a good fire, so there would be plenty of coals. She planned on tossing in the spuds, because while they char on the outside, they cook within. Then you spear them with a stick to pull them out of the coals, and just peel and eat. She had learned that from her dad—oh, but he had butter to smear.

  She went back into the cottage, but decided to check on some local regulations, just to be sure. Murphie had turned on some tunes too, so didn’t hear the sirens.

  When she got back, men were standing around the fire pit. Her fire was all out, but smoldering, and her sticks were all trampled.

  She cried out, “What’s going on?”

  Some of the tenants were gathered too, and they looked a little sheepish.

  A firefighter took off his hat, and said, “You have a burning permit?”

  “This is a fire pit, and I don’t need a burning permit for that—I just checked on the Internet.”

  He turned to the other firemen, who were winding up their hose. They just shrugged. Lillian came up and said, “Is there a problem?”

  He said, “This a legal fire pit, ma’am?”

  “Well, yes, it is. Our father had them built as part of the renovations—they are legal, I’m sure. All the cottages have them, though most people don’t use them much—mosquitos and such, and bats sometimes too.”

  The fireman said, “Sorry to have troubled you then, but we had to be sure.”

  Murphie mumbled, “What happened to my hot dogs?”

  The fire engine had a dog, a black Lab—it was now licking its lips and rubbing its muzzle to clean it off.

  She suspected the worse, and while the fireman apologized, a few of the others were laughing.

  Murphie looked to the older folks, and they had found other things more interesting—some were looking up at the stars, others were looking at the weeds in the yard, and some just sort of ambled away.

  Murphie had worked so hard all day, and had been looking forward to this, but now a dog was all it took . . .

  She didn’t even have anything else for supper. She poked at the wet mess where her fire had been.

  It was so soggy there now—it would have to dry out for a long while before she could try again. Just then the other dogs came to rummage in the mess—Fig and Beau both. The dogs found some of the burnt potatoes, it seems, and seemed to enjoy them.

  She said, “Butter with those?”

  Murphie then put her hands to her face and bent forward laughing—but the sound came out muffled. It was probably just exhaustion, but in a good way.

  The fireman took a step closer, staring intently at her, but saw that it was laughter, not crying. Some of the others seemed concerned too, and when Murphie stood up, it was clear. They started laughing too.

  The closest fireman, definitely named Callahan, smiled just a bit—then they got on their way.

  She turned then to the old ladies. “Anyone care to go to the Seabiscuit?”

  ~~~

  Beau and Orca sometimes took the afternoon sun together. Fig, the other dog at the cottages just didn’t fit in with a leisurely lifestyle. Fig was a pure breed something or other, fidgety, and it was always immaculately groomed. Herb and Larry were pleasant enough, but when it came to Fig, they were unreasonable.

  Fig got dirty digging in the gardens and flowerbeds, and most times what he was digging up was something Orca had deposited first. Beau was given to chasing squirrels, and sometimes he’d come back with dead rats. He’d sit on his front porch with the dead vermin clenched in his mouth, growling, while Fig tried to take it from him.

  They didn’t fight, the dogs, but Fig was sort of . . . well, a schemer. He’d try to distract with barking or tricks, even rolling over or sidling closer like he couldn’t be seen.

  It might have been funny to watch, but the tenants in cottage 6 took it personally if anyone else tried to discipline their dog. Beau was better behaved in general, and knew how to obey commands, whether he agreed with them or not. When there was trouble between the pets, it was almost always between Orca and Fig.

  Lillian tried to mediate, suggesting that Fig not be allowed to dig up what Orca left behind. It was also suggested that Beau didn’t actually eat the rats as much as catch the rats, and really, that was his nature—he was part Terrier, and really Terriers were that kind of dog.

  No one ever really saw the purpose of a dog like Fig—long hair was given to collecting sand and dirt and burrs and matted easily too. The brothers were constantly brushing it while complaining, usually outside in their lawn chairs, as they didn’t like hair inside everywhere.

  They had the wrong kind of dog for that—Fig was far to . . . fluffy. But Murphie followed Dorothy’s example and did her best to stay out of it . . . until one Saturday when the brothers came pounding at her door.

  Herb was yelling: “That horrible creature!”

  Larry was yelling: “It’s not Fig’s fault!”

  That seemed a little contradictory, but Murphie knew what they meant, and that should have bothered her more. She did her best not to laugh.

  Seems that somehow (according to Herb and Larry), Beau and Orca conspired to make Fig chase the cat. Orca ran to the trees by the shed, but then somehow the cat got onto the roof from there.

  Herb said, “Which, you know, is very high up.”

  Then the cat was making a horrible noise because it was hurt or stuck or some such.

  Larry said, “Normally, we wouldn’t care, but Fig is quite upset and now so is that mutt.”

  They meant Beau.

  That would explain the frantic barking though.

  They further explained that when the brothers tried to climb up to get the cat down, Herb got scratched and came down. And worse, the branches broke under Larry, who had gone up to help his brother down. They fell down and now neither of them could get up again, not that they even wanted to.

  Herb said, “And with the branches broken like that, I don’t think that nasty cat can get down.”

  Murphie figured the cat probably could, but the dogs were making such a racket now that other tenants had come out, and so had others
in the neighborhood—and they were starting to complain.

  Lillian and Dorothy came next with Ruth in tow. Together, they all walked up and over the hill to the shed. When Lillian saw her cat up there, she got hysterical. Ruth did her best to calm Lillian down, and Dorothy helped Murphie get the ladder from the shed.

  That’s when they heard the sirens, and Dorothy went back to explain to the firemen—someone had called it in.

  Meanwhile, Herb and Larry managed to corner their dog and take him away. Ed and Coreen did the same for Beau, but not so easily. They all took their pets back down, but in a moment, Beau came back again, but he was quiet this time around.

  She supposed that he could stay.

  Murphie went up the ladder, not sure how to coax the cat down. Maybe she should have gotten some food from Lillian or something to catch Orca’s attention. When she got all the way up, the cat edged further up until it truly did look like it was stuck.

  Poor Orca was all puffed up, and claws were not gripping the tin of the roof at all.

  She tried to get closer, but had the same problem. She mumbled, “You might be on your own, nasty cat.”

  But she was near enough now that the cat seemed . . . relieved. She could hear it purring loudly, which she had read that cats do when they are stressed too.

  She said, “Don’t worry, buddy, we’ll be okay.”

  Orca meant to roll over in appreciation—but slipped. The cat started to slide down the tin roof, frantically trying to dig in with its claws. Murphie lurched forward to grab what she could—the nap of the cat’s back—mostly neck, but not all.

  The cat gave a great angry hiss, and flailed. Murphie managed to keep the cat from falling, but Orca slithered around to grip where claws could sink in—on flesh.

  It was excruciating.

  Even if Murphie let go herself, the cat still would not fall—unless they both did. Cats are said to land on their feet, but from this height, it could still be quite damaged, even dead.

  She’d probably just break a leg or an arm . . . or both . . . or her neck. Murphie was bleeding now too—profusely. Even so, she tried to calm the cat down, as she held it close while she straddle the top of the roof.

  Some horse, she mused, this isn’t quite what I had in mind. Thinking of that helped to calm her down, and she hoped might also help the cat as well. It seemed to be working, and she continued to talk.

  From there, she noticed now that others had gathered around the fire engine down at the cottage office. Good, no witnesses, she thought, feeling a bit pathetic.

  She scooted back in the direction of the ladder. When she glanced back to see how much further, she saw that it was no longer there.

  Somehow, it was knocked down.

  Closer to the tree now, the cat bounded from her grip, hit the roof halfway down and sprung from it full out. It was beautiful. Orca landed on a branch and made it’s way down.

  When the cat hit the ground, Beau bounced around Orca and they two danced a bit like that, then ran off into the woods at the top of the bluff. It really was quite sweet.

  Murphie mumbled, “Easy for you.”

  Now what about me?

  She then saw that the fire truck was now gone—she hadn’t even noticed it leave. Others had gone back to whatever they had been doing before. It was like she was alone in the world. She called for help, but only Lillian came.

  “What is it, dear? Where is my lovey?”

  “Orca made it down, they ran into the woods. The ladder fell. Can you put it up again?”

  Lillian said as if Murphie was being ridiculous, “Oh, my dear, I can’t lift that. Don’t worry, Dorothy went with the nice firemen—oh, goodness, is that blood?”

  This time it was—not paint, but blood.

  The flashing lights came with the fire truck, which had to go around to the street above and into the driveway here. They didn’t bother with her ladder, but used their own, along with some first aid.

  She had no idea how her ladder had fallen, and she said so every time someone new asked. It was getting annoying, and she felt like a klutz. Murphie was greatly embarrassed—again.

  As one fireman administered first aid, Callahan came up and asked then, “So how did you manage to knock down the ladder?”

  Again: She didn’t have a clue, and that was embarrassing too. She wondered if maybe the dogs had knocked it down, or one of the brothers when they tried to get Fig, but she wasn’t going to mention any of that.

  She looked back to Lillian and Dorothy, but the ladies refused to look her in the eye.

  The attending fireman said, “You should go to the doctor to check for infection, miss, maybe get a shot for tetanus or some antibiotics.”

  She didn’t think that would be necessary. He leaned closer then to apply the bandage, but then glanced to the elderly ladies hovering nearby. He said lowly, “Callahan just started a few months ago, he’s a single, so he doesn’t know the folks around here very well.”

  She said, equally low, “Well, I’m new too.”

  She could tell he was smiling now. “I figured. Take my advice, miss, and don’t fight it. This is how I met my wife. Maybe you better come to the precinct potluck next week before those old dears have to do some real damage to you.”

  The End

  Bridges

  * * * * *

  “A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.” ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic's Notebook, 1966

  “When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” ~Kahlil Gibran

  “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal.

  Love leaves a memory no one can steal.”

  ~From a headstone in Ireland

  ~~~

  Love Leaves a Memory

  1940s-50s, Oregon, USA

  Velma and Joe got married when the war first began—began for America, that is. It was a rude and brutal awakening, Pearl Harbor, and not many people realized things could change so quickly.

  Some of the world had been at war for years by then, though no one in their town, especially those of their age, seemed to think about it much . . . except for some of the folks who had family in Europe—mostly English or French, and some Germans too.

  If there was bitterness between those families, no one noticed that either. It wasn’t the kind of town were people looked for such things. When Velma and Joe graduated from high school the spring before, they were looking forward to the future—the one they thought was coming, and they were in no rush.

  But then came December 7, 1941.

  Joe volunteered for the Marines the week after Pearl Harbor was attacked by the Imperial Japanese Empire. He wasn’t the only one from their town—the country was at war now. Everywhere, young men like him were called to defend the nation; others joined up to do their part however they could.

  Older men who had been in the Great War before knew what their sons and nephews were in for. But still, they sent them off to whatever awaited this time around.

  With Joe being gone for so many weeks of basic training, it confirmed what they already suspected: They wanted to spend the rest of their lives together; that life they would share after his duty was done. But they didn’t want to wait to get started, and so they got married when he came home on leave.

  The day after their three-day honeymoon to the coast, he was deployed into the Pacific. Velma got letters now and again, sometimes more than one letter at a time in the packet that arrived from him, as mail didn’t get home from those places on a regular basis.

  Sometimes it was the weather, and planes went down carrying supplies or troops going out or the wounded coming home. Other times, it was the fighting—personal mail then wasn’t a priority.

  She sent him off things in return—letters, photos, socks or magazines or some of his favorite candy or whatever she could. She never knew just when he actually got them, or the state of th
e items when he did, but they were always welcome, she was assured.

  The news coming back home was never as good as the best wishes going out. That worried her some, but she had plenty of support—especially at the start. The town seemed to be of one heart and mind, and everyone knew which families had boys in uniform—some in the Pacific, others in Europe. A few hadn’t heard, and it was rumored that they were doing what was called Intelligence work.

  The families with relations in England and France got even more sympathy than before as news returned as to what had really been happening there—what was happening to the troops as well.

  And now those German families seemed . . . suspicious.

  After a few months, Velma sadly acknowledged that she was not pregnant. It bothered her some, but she tried not to think about that. They wanted a big family, but they also knew that a lot of things had to wait, and not just for them, but for everyone.

  She was accepted into a training school to be a typist, specializing in legal documents. It was as much to keep herself busy as to prepare for the future. She knew what everyone thought—and she thought it too in unguarded moments: No sense letting the grass grow under your feet, as maybe Joe wouldn’t be coming home again . . . at least, not alive or all in one piece.

  Other families in the town—including folks she knew from church—already got their bad news. Somehow, they all thought it would take longer for their sons to be lost to war. The older men spoke of long times with no action, waiting in foreign places to be deployed. And then they were thrust into brutal combat, and word of the results sometimes would take weeks, even months to come back.

  If they found you . . . if they found all of you . . .

  It didn’t take long for someone to hush them up. Then they’d try to say comforting things, like: That was then, when much of the Great War was fought in the trenches and the mud, and had been for years even before the Americans joined in.