Three Stories -Robyn Makaruk, Joan Shepherd, Dave Lewis

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A NOTE ON MY CAR 

by   Robyn Makaruk Feb.2015

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The taxi dropped me off at the curb after I returned from my latest assignment. I had been gone six months and my body was bruised and tired after many grueling weeks of trekking through rain forests and wading through swamps. Fumbling for my key while loaded down with climbing gear and camera equipment, I opened the door and found to my astonishment it was almost empty. Were we burgled? My footsteps made a hollow sound on the wood floors as I walked through the rooms. 

The furniture that remained included a murphy bed, some bed linens and towels, my antique desk and chair, my elderly leather recliner, the kitchen table and two chairs, one set of dishes, a couple of glasses and that was about it.  The refrigerator door yawned open, plug pulled, but I could see a carton of baking soda sitting on one of the racks.  Well, I thought, at least I didn't have to open the fridge to rotting food, and the power was still on.....small blessings. There was no evidence that my partner and I had lived there as a couple for the past 15 years, just my stuff remained.

I dumped my gear on the floor and sank into the recliner and in a minute I was fast asleep. It must have been several hours later that I was awakened by sirens in the street below, the lights creating red strobes across the room. The accident must have occurred right beneath our apartment. After the wail of the ambulance had gone and the street was quiet again, the call of severe sleep deprivation set me to making up the bed to get well-earned sleep. The next morning was pouring rain, and after taking a long shower, I dressed and left to get my car, garaged about a block away.

I was about to get in the car when I saw a note, well more like a letter, under the windshield. I tossed it on to the front seat of the car intending to read it after I had finished my errands. On returning I parked at the curb to unload the many bags of groceries to be carried up three flights of stairs before the car was parked back in the garage. On the last trip, I saw the letter on the seat again, so threw it on top of the last bag.

It took an hour or more to pack and store my provisions, and by then I decided to make a sandwich and take a break. Sitting at the table, I saw the letter again, so I sat down with my food and opened it. This is what it said....

"Sweetheart, I know this will be a shock for you, but I have decided to move out and make a new life for myself. With your work and your assignments that seem to take you far across the world, and for many months at a time, this is no way to make a life together. I know that when we are together, it is like heaven on earth, but these times apart seem to be getting more and longer over the years. I know you are dedicated to your work, and I love you for that, but in the end I know I won't have the wonderful years of us being together to savor. There are just not enough of them."

"I have crated all your personal papers and books and stored them in a locker. I will come by on the evening of your return and bring you the key as I want to do this face to face for the last time. Don't be angry with me....remember all the good times we had for many years. You will remain in my heart as the sweetest memory of those wonderful times together." It was signed with her all-familiar signature.

I seemed to sit there in shock, not really accepting her decision, but wanting the best of life for her. As I wondered why she had not come by last evening I heard a knock at the door. A uniformed officer asked if he might come in to deliver news of the accident in the street the night before. A woman had been struck and badly injured, and at the hospital had asked that an envelope be delivered to my address if she did not survive. She died at midnight.

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Standing on a Corner

by Joan Shepherd

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Not since I was a little girl taking piano lessons downtown and stood on a corner waiting for a bus, have I stood on another corner in another downtown, waiting for a friend to pick me up. When I was that little girl, I was afraid to look at anything except for the bus. The numbers on the buses were hard to read and my eyes weren’t that good. I thought if I missed the right bus, the world would come to an end.

Just the other day, much the opposite of that little girl time, I thoroughly enjoyed looking at everything going on a not too busy corner with four way stop signs.

There were two groups of school children who had been visiting the Mission, across the street from where I stood. Almost like a rehearsed dance, they walked two by two to the corner and separated with the younger group crossing to the barracks and the older kids walking the opposite direction, destination unknown.

One girl was hesitating, walking alone at the end of the line of her schoolmates. She finally ran across the street toward me but veered to her left by a shiny black Mercedes, parallel parked in the first parking space off the corner in front of me. She had a paper in her hand and barely stopping her gait, put the paper on the windshield to be held securely by the windshield wiper, then ran across the front of the car, then turning to the sidewalk, ran in front of me and back across the street and down the opposite sidewalk to join the tail end of her group. I doubt they even missed her for a minute. My curiosity was peaked.

The next thing I saw was two men in tan uniforms which looked more military than police. They were police, sure enough, in the golf cart like vehicle they were in, slowly moving down the street, with one man making the left rear tire with a piece of chalk on a long metal stick.

Someone would return in three hours so see if cars were parked beyond the limit. I wanted to get out there to see what that paper said but they were police, I wouldn’t dare.

A man came by just then, pushing a cart with several packages on it and billing papers stuck on top of the packages. The cart clicked as it rolled and hit cross sections in the sidewalk. The man had a blank expression between boredom and daydreaming. He had curly hair, cut short, poking out the sides of his head in a wedge with a mind of its own. Then folks started going into the restaurant on my corner, some checking the posted menu, as it was lunchtime. I made a mental note to eat there sometime as I had heard both good and bad reviews. But all this action made me even more curious about the note the child had left and more reason that I couldn’t go read it. I felt it was a note, not an ad, as she wouldn’t have made such a plan to deliver it if it had only said to buy tires at Sonoma Tires.

My friend called on my cell phone to say she was on her way, had been delayed but would be there shortly. I had to act fast if I was going to get the note. I wondered if people walking either direction in the crosswalk would even pay any attention to me going to the parked car, getting the paper off the windshield without getting into the car.

I took a chance and walked slowly across the back of the parallel parked, shiny black Mercedes, then I abruptly turned toward the front and tried not to change my gait while pulling the note from under the windshield wiper as if it was meant for me, then I walked back to my standing spot waiting for my ride with the folded note stuck in my purse, sight unseen. Nobody did or said anything. I could hardly hide my anticipation heading towards home.

My friend arrived saying, “ Should we stop for a sandwich? I’m starved!” I hated to say no if she was starving while doing me the favor of the ride but I pleaded. “No, thank you. My stomach’s a bit upset. I need some tea and a nap.” She accepted that with a couple follow-up questions and we were home.

I barely said Hello to the cat without giving her a pet, as I was so anxious to read the note. Quickly I opened it.

"Dad. I stole something. I‘m scared.”

That was it. No signature, nothing else. Just “I stole something.” I wondered what. Some candy or something worse? No, it would have to be something worse because she was scared. Something from the field trip to the Mission or something from a classmate? My cat wanted attention and clawed my leg. I gave her a pet without enthusiasm, as I felt sorry for the girl who would wonder why her Dad never spoke to her about it. Would she ask him if he got the note? Would she tell him what she had stolen? Did she see her Dad’s car and then decide to write the note? What about her mother?

I told myself I shouldn’t get concerned about the note and all the consequences because I would never know the answers. I dropped the note in the wastebasket and got busy with my usual routine.

The newspaper came out a couple of days later and it included a short article about a missing crucifix from the Mission that had been present and accounted for the morning of same day I had been standing on the corner. Since they had several groups touring the facility that day, there were no suspects. Anyone with any information should call the police.

I didn’t.

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CONVINCED

by Dave Lewis

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Victor was relaxing on a winter vacation in Florida’s Palm Beach. Sitting at an outdoor table, shaded by a large umbrella, he enjoyed the warmth and sea breezes as he sipped a Daiquiri. It was his second. Attentive staff caused him to hurry through the first, even though he planned only one. He was nursing the second more deliberately because he knew he was susceptible to more of a kick than he was capable of mastering. The optics of a tight, striped skirt, articulated by the buttocks of a passing women, created a vertigo and dizziness for Victor. The spirit of the Daiquiri laughed, expecting Victor’s downfall soon, when the full punch of the second glass was absorbed.

Suddenly, Victor received a rush of adrenaline that burned off most of the alcohol. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise like a startled cur’s. He felt running sweat even though he was below the normal trigger level of heat. A man casually sauntering in front of this bar reminded him of a cellmate, Vince. It caused a heart- thumping flash-back to the darkest time of his life.

Mostly body language and manner suggested it might be Vince since this man looked so drastically different from the cell mate with whom he had served a two year penalty in a Pennsylvania penitentiary. The flash-back might have passed if the stroller hadn’t made eye contact with Victor and experienced surprised recognition himself. Unperturbed, the stroller smiled and walked over to Victor with an extended hand. He sensed Victor’s confusion and self-congratulated his disguise.

The Vince who Victor had known, had light hair, ice-blue eyes, a slim build and was clean shaven. Now the man with the offered hand had black hair and a mustache, brown eyes, a swarthy complexion and an extra 40 pounds around the middle. He was over-dressed in an archaic linen suit with a blue silk hanky in his breast pocket. Victor couldn’t fathom the change.

“Sorry to surprise you Victor. I am not a morphed ghost. I am just dressed this way for business. You see, in my business I don’t want to be recognized in my native form. The hair is dyed, the face bush is glued on, the eyes are colored contacts, the pasty white is painted over and the bulk is strapped on. You recall, my late father was a Shakespearian actor and as I followed him around the country I saw the inside of costumes and makeup. Some of my customers, suffering from buyer’s remorse, have mistakenly called for my arrest. Although I know I can not be charged with a crime, it is quicker when I can’t be found, by a whiner, in a police line-up.”

Victor’s eyes would not let his brain accept the identification he was being told. He couldn’t remove Vince’s costume to satisfy his need of proof. Then, as though coming on cue, a small green lizard ran onto the table, stalking a fly. Vince snatched up the lizard and tossed him into his mouth. He verified the move by showing his empty hands. They were the hands of a magician, Victor knew. Vince casually removed his silk hanky from the breast pocket and unfolded it to reveal the lizard. The lizard was now brown. This was the lizard’s own trick, gratuitously added to Vince’s demonstration. Victor was satisfied; this WAS the Vince he had lived with in a 4 x 8 cell for two years. The Vince that had probably saved his life or at least his sanity. The Vince that could concoct a story to cover any situation or sell any fantasy as reality. All the prisoners called him ConVince after they had countlessly seen him convince some mark that black was white.

“What is this business on the edge of legality that requires such elaborate costuming?” Victor asked. Meeting this old acquaintance and friend plus the unburned alcohol in his system had lightened Victor’s mood. Smile wrinkles creased a face that hadn’t seen an upturned mouth in years. He felt a loss of pressure – like the relief Vince had created in those prison years.

“See that shining black and tan, vintage car parked up the street. That is the bait for my business. It is a 1930 Model A Ford cabriolet roadster. Restored to mint condition and even nicer than when it sold for less than $1,000 eighty-five years ago. I park it in the play grounds of the rich, retired, and bored citizens that frequent this area. A certain age group responds to the sight of this car. It is an age that has more money than it has time to spend. They see that vehicle as a chance for a kiss of fame and a last fling of the “wind in the hair” feeling. They want to drive it in the next parade and show it in the Senior Car Shows. No work needed – it is all done. Just bland, surplus money needs to be turned over. I have sold that car 17 times in the last six months at an average of $30,000 a hit. I have seven other pristine vintage cars. They are all the favorites of some age group and background in an area where the idle rich collect.”

“ If you look up the street you will see a gent putting a note on the windshield. The itch has become final. He has been eyeing the car for a week and now he has convinced himself and some lady that it is what he must have. I have best luck with ethnic similarity. That is why you see me today as Guiseppe. In this part of the country I sell cars often to Germans, Indians, and South Americans. I can speak five languages and American sign language. My disguises have worked each time.” Vince beamed proudly at Victor’s relaxing attitude. Victor was wondering where the credibility ended but Vince had never led him astray in spite of the ConVincing

he had seen him pull on others. “How do you get the cars back?” Victor questioned.

“I don’t really sell the car. I sell a substitute. I buy a $1,000 car at a used car lot and when I am negotiating the final sale the mark reads the vintage title but it is the used car title that is signed. Some sleight of hand is required but it holds up in court. The signatures show the ownership. I set up a delivery the next day and have an innocent young lady deliver the used car and papers. By that time, I don’t resemble the salesman and I never leave prints or DNA behind. Not a legal requirement but retribution attempts have been made by some.” said Vince.

“What about the wife and family? “Victor wondered.

“That may be for later. Right now I know lots of ladies around the country that are someone else’s wives. A few are even raising my children. I’ve convinced them it is the simplest way to optimize life and stay out of courts. I'd like to have you tell me about how things are going for you, Victor. I’ve done all the talking. I have to finish this deal then promptly truck the old Ford back home. If you are still going to be around, I can be back in four days without the disguise.”

Victor answered, “I have had some interesting times in the whole shebang. I’ll tell my story next week”.

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