Fright Night 2015

The Final Curtain - Dave Lewis

My working life had been spent as an actor and my acting career had supported me well but without fame.  I was what is called a “First Person actor”.  That means that the roles I held were of the first person killed in the plot. I was the first peasant shot on Bastille Day, the squadron’s first pilot shot down in flames, the first seaman overboard to be eaten by sharks, the first cowboy to be skewered by an Indian arrow, the first mountain climber to slip off an Alp, the first missionary to be served as a cannibal lunch, the first infantryman to be bayonetted and the first Zulu to slow down a cannon ball. There were other variations on that theme but you must get the picture .

The net result of my career was that a lot of people recognized me but didn’t know who I was.  They had that image of the frequently dying man in their     subconscious but they hadn’t stored a caption for the picture.  Unknown and unheralded, I had died more make believe deaths than any other actor.

When I had retired, I moved to the California coast. My house was 300 feet above the Pacific Ocean which was less than a mile away. The house clung to the side of a steep canyon and was accessed by a steep dead-end road but plenty of neighbors shared similar circumstances.

One winter day, I was looking out the front bay window to check the weather. Extremely minute rain drops or a thick fog hung in the air with little  moisture making it to the ground. Just then a  car pulled up at my neighbor’s house across the street. It was a long, black, Chrysler sedan with a low roof-line, narrow windows and a squared off tail end.  All of its windows were tinted such a dark black that the windows were hard to distinguish from the sheet metal - even the windshield and the front windows had the dark tint, an illegal option.  Except for a lack of markings the vehicle looked more like a scaled-down hearse than a passenger vehicle.

My neighbor was a retired US Air Force General, a widower for the past 12 years. He had built his house over twenty years ago and he had equipped it with alarm systems, proximity lights and TV cameras that were updated as the technology improved. It was rumored that he still consulted for defense companies and his work was SECRET.

The driver of the black Chrysler got out of his car carrying a large, flat, insulated package that suggested a pizza was being delivered. The driver was dressed in  black and wore a black fedora that obscured his face He even wore black gloves. When he reached the door he made an uncomplicated gesture and the door opened. None of the General’s security lights, horns, flasher and sirens paid notice, all was quiet. 

I continued to watch this unusual visit because it seemed so unnatural to deliver pizza in such an elaborate, expensive car. The strange behavior of the driver and the unnatural relaxation of the General’s obsessive security seemed odd. Typically the General would not allow entrance to any visitor without a personal inspection at the door.

Within minutes a single gunshot was heard.  The sound was loud enough to be heard through the General’s closed door and mine.  Several minutes later the black clad visitor left the house, closed the door with the same casual gesture and unhurriedly reentered the long, black Chrysler.  As he walked, he folded and refolded the insulated bag he had carried to the house into a tiny package, and put it in his coat pocket.  His face, obscured by the hat, was never visible and as the car left its berth in front of the General’s house, I saw that it had no license tag, front or back.

Within 15 minutes an Emergency Medical van and a sheriff’s car pulled up in front of the General’s house. The officers and the EMT personnel tried to enter the house but eventually had to break in the door.  The security alarm company was called in to disable the warning sirens and flashing lights.  Hours later, after additional police investigators and photographers had joined the entourage, the medical technicians carried out a gurney with what I assumed was the General’s body enshrouded in a bag.  The house was swathed in yellow “DO NOT ENTER” tape and everyone left.  I was surprised that there were no police inquiries around the neighborhood. I was probably the only observer of the black-clad figure and the black Chrysler.

Later in the day the news sources reported that the General had committed suicide.  A note was found and his Air Force issued,  Officer’s Model Colt .45 was in his hand. No foul play was suspected.

I called the police and offered the information from my observation but they expressed no interest in investigating further.

Eventually, years later, I ceased to ponder the strange circumstances and the events were just a routine memory until I saw from my front window the same black Chrysler driving up the street. It passed the General’s former house and moved slowly out of my sight going up the hill.  The road dead-ended in a mile and I waited for the car to come back down the hill. It returned and unexpectedly pulled up in front of my house.

The driver got out of the Chrysler and approached my door. He was in the same black garb with a black, wide brimmed fedora and large dark glasses.  As I stood behind the door, the lock bolts noisily disengaged and the door swung open; the driver stood in the doorway and then, in a second, entered.

In an instant surge of comprehension, my mind calmed and the anxiety and fear I felt when I saw the car  abated. 

“Oh, now I see!  You are Death.” I said.  “I had thought you were the General’s murderer.”

“ I am not a murderer ! ” were the words that I heard or sensed. “The General pulled the trigger himself, it was his desire.”

“ Your death is another contract. I am tasked to review your life for you and prepare you for a transition.” He handed me a large heavy book and instructed, “Open this and see your previous decades. You can speed the narrative by squeezing the edges but there is no going back, no replay.  Sit where you will be comfortable and relax.”

I opened the book to find a misty display of moving images and perceived sounds. It was my whole life played for me to re-examine. Some events I had forgotten, some were different than my brain had stored but the story was complete. My parents, my siblings, my teachers, my wives, my children, my bullies, my allies, my friends, and my enemies were all present. Successes, inventions, triumphs, failures, cruelties, compassion, loves, hates, errors and mistakes were all there to re-examine.  I replayed the 134 B-Grade movies I had acted in.  I had never been in a final act.

The clock showed that it had only taken minutes to scan the many decades. As the display reentered the present, I grew drowsy and fell asleep.

The black clothed stranger took the book from my hands and pressed it flat. He then folded and refolded it till it was the size of a coin and put it in his pocket. With gestures he opened the door and from the outside, re-bolted it. He entered the black Chrysler and drove down the hill toward the ocean.  No one else had seen the big black car or its driver.

                                                                  ***

The Ultimate Ride  Jean Wong

 The tires kept slipping over to the edge of the narrow road, but Sheila knew she couldn’t say anything.  He’d drive worse just to show her. She squeezed the sides of her seat. Her foot started pressing on the floor as if she was braking the car even though they were going up the steep mountain side. Where were they? The sun had hidden behind swollen trees— the grim, yellow light made shadows splatter across the road. 

The place was deserted. Why couldn’t those damn Wicksteins have the funeral services in town? Hardly knew them—hadn’t seen them in two years. Sheila remembered the time the wife had stared at her loafers like she was wearing work boots.
“Norman,” she said. “Think you better put your lights on.”  
A low sound came out of his throat. Was that a yes or a no?
After twenty five years Norman never said anything to her anymore.
“I’m cold,” she said out loud to herself.
That was another thing she didn’t like about riding with Norman. Why couldn’t they ever take her station wagon? No, he always had to take his truck—broken radio, doors that wouldn’t lock, and the silence.   Every time she thought of something to talk about, he wasn’t interested—the insurance bill, their daughter’s snarky phone call, her in-grown toe nail. At home they had the TV so it didn’t matter. 

 Had they turned all the lights off? The stove for sure she’d checked. He was always leaving that one light on in the basement. She’d just read someone’s house had caught on fire when they left the closet light on next to some sweaters. What about the pills? Did she remember to bring his? She had hers. She fingered all the eventualities in her pocket. 

 Sheila chewed down another Tums.  Could be her ulcer… stomach flu, maybe the fish she had last night?

The winding road was making her dizzy. It began to level off and she gave a sigh, letting her shoulders sink down. But then the wind whipped up. A strong gust could blow the truck over the side of the mountain. She hoped they wouldn’t have to eat outside. There must be a zillion mosquitoes up here… there might even be bats. She pictured a platter of bland cold cuts and cheese. People were so cheap nowadays— cheap wine, paper plates, plastic forks.
Bumping over the pot holes was bothering her bladder. She shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee. She’d gone twice before they left home, but some days there was just no telling.
“Norm, I think I have to go.”
Sheila saw him brush his forehead like a fly had just landed. He always did that whenever she spoke to him. She was just an insect crawling around in his life.
“Norm.”
She knew he couldn’t stand her anymore than she could stand him.
“Norm, pull over.”
“Damn it. Shut the hell up. How am I supposed to drive with that mouth of yours?” 
They rode on.  Her stomach flopped as the road became steep again. How high can a mountain get? She figured it was over two hours since they left home. She forced herself not to look out the side of the window. There was aspirin in the glove compartment, but nothing for nausea.  She felt like throwing up—maybe there was a paper bag or something in the back.

 The car gave a sudden lurch, then stopped. Norm sat there, staring straight ahead.

“What are you doing?” she yelled, “You can’t stop in the middle of the road!”

 Norm’s head dropped down on the steering wheel.

“Norm, Norm!” she screamed. The motor was running. The car was sliding backward. She jammed the gear into park and turned off the ignition.
“Norm!” She lifted his head. His eyes were turned inward, white foam dribbled down his chin onto his shirt.

 “Norm! For God’s sakes!”  A fine time to act up! She pulled at him with fury and desperation.  She reached over grabbing his massive legs onto her side. He felt like a sack of sand with that damn beer belly. She wrapped her arms around his middle and tugged with all her might.  He slumped toward her, falling against her shoulders, his shoes curled under him. She pulled ‘till she saw enough of a space on the driver side. She wormed her slight frame out from under him and raced around into the driver’s seat. She sat bolt upright. Her heart was on fire. She didn’t even have her driving glasses. The engine screeched as she turned the key with all her might. She inched slowly forward. 

The road began to wind again. She’d have to turn back, but how? There were no driveways or shoulders. My god!  Was he dead? Leaving her like this holding the bag.  She put on the brights though the sun made a brief appearance through a sudden clearing. 
The truck seemed to slow down. No, it was just taking forever. And what was the address? Jesus! The truck lurched in sudden jumps as her foot switched from gas to brake.  The trees began to thin out.  Dead branches and dry brush littered the ground. One match and the whole place could go up in flames.

She spotted a few shacks. Some sort of house behind it?  She turned into the driveway, as the sound of gravel hit the wheels. A mongrel chained to a massive hanging tree branch began snarling. Two men working on a car turned as they heard her engine.  They were dark. Maybe black? She couldn’t tell. Nowadays even the bank tellers were foreigners. She saw the sagging frame of what must have been a house…maybe a barn. 

One of the men with an oil stick in his hand approached. He had a kerchief round his head; his t-shirt was damp from sweat. His blank-hard eyes bore down on her. She let her window open a crack. She saw the other man come around to the other side. 
“Can I help you?” he said. His voice was raspy. He had wisps of hair down the side of his chin. She smelt the stale scent of cigarette smoke as he spoke. Her eye was caught by an ax buried in a tree stump behind him.
“My husband…” a choked whisper was stuck in her throat.
“Yeah, lady, you look like you got a problem,” he broke into a grotesque grin. 
“Well, I don’t think it’s very funny,” she said. The memory came to her now of some man offering her a stick of gum when she was a little girl. The skin of his arm was a mottled dusty brown. With an abrupt yank, her mom had pulled her away. Her knuckles ached from gripping the wheel. She could hardly breathe. Fear cut through her heart.
“No Ma’am,” his eyes narrowed into a fixed stare, “wasn’t trying to tell no joke.”
“It…he…” She needed some air. She felt sick.
“You don’t look so good yourself,” a voice seemed to float in the air.
“A funeral…” she started to say.
Someone coughed. She heard a sharp laugh.
The doors of her car spread open like the wings of an airplane—the two men coming after her. Sheila stepped on the gas, knocking both of them down.  She saw one trying to get up, reaching into his pocket. He must have a gun!  She jammed the car in reverse, then back into drive and hit him. She heard a scream. She felt the wheels rear up over soft bumps. A cockroach came to mind. One whack and the legs were twitching; another hit would finish him off. She shifted the gear back in reverse, then forward. The truck rocked back and forth over groans and the thud of limbs until it stalled. She thought her heart would surely burst in the sudden stillness.
A slight groan tugged at her side. She looked down at the fluttering eyelids of Norman.
“Norm, Norm! Wake up! Help!”
She saw a damp spot at his crotch. Had he wet himself? She could always count on him to do something disgusting.  A sludge of rage churned through her bowels. Had he ever once been there for her?  Those early years stabbed at her memory—his massive, moist body flopping and panting on top of her. His sullen meanness. The one time he’d remembered her birthday and told her by now she should be woman enough to satisfy him. The time she’d given birth, after thirty seven hours of labor and the bastard told her it didn’t look like his kid.  He’d screwed her in every way. No way was she going to take the rap for having to ride in his truck.
She grabbed at his belt and worked his body back to the driver’s seat. She managed to roughly jerk him into place while she got out from her side. She remembered the line, dead men don’t talk and slammed his head against the wheel again and again. 

Then careful not to look at the ground, she set out— the sound of a dog barking deep in the distance of her mind.

                                                                ***

Dark Passage  Robyn Makaruk

The glockenspiel sound of the crystal bead curtain 

As it was drawn aside

Did not disturb the occupants lying on low sofas

That sweet, familiar aroma floated in the smoky air

Returning him to the times spent in the opium dens of Southeast Asia

Smoking finest quality chandu 

Its intoxicating elixir delivering metaphysical qualities

Coursing throughout his whole body.

Or so he thought.

He would not open that door again,

Not fall into the same trap of dependence

That had sent him to a monastery in the mountains

Where monks had cured him with a five-day purging 

Using an herbal paste 

Followed by hours of vomit 

No, never again would he become a 30-per-day pipe smoker.

But the memories of all those wonderful hours spent in euphoria

Were more powerful

And he wanted to open that secret door, and

Return, just one more time

To live in the spectacular dreams and

Fly with the comets and other extra-terrestrials.

A beautiful, young, woman greeted him and guided him to a velvet sofa  

“I am Lily and will attend to all your needs". 

She took his pipe, stoked it with chandu, and

Lit the oil lamp on the low table

He lay down.

***

More Than a Full Moon  Joan Shepherd

It was one of those nights without a breeze, the temperature still high enough to make even a sheet too heavy.  At almost 11:00,  I thought I should go to bed but I wasn’t enthused. Just as predicted, I tossed and turned enough so that the sheet pulled out and tangled my feet, making me even more fidgety. Freed of my bondage, I walked about the moon-lit house, easily finding my way to the refrigerator which had nothing to offer to sooth my body or soul.

Back to bed only to repeat the lack of sleepiness and getting up to walk aimlessly about the house, still clearly lit by a full moon.  After the third try, I was drawn to the open bathroom window. Resting my arms on the windowsill, I was surprised how dark it seemed outside while the inside of the house was filled with moonlight. 

Then I saw something strange. Through of a grove of trees across Arroyo Street and about a block away, there was a light, not a flashlight but an irregular light making a rather thick oblong circle, the edges fuzzy as you might expect with fog, but it was a clear night. 

The circle started moving a few feet to the right and then the left, a pendulum in the night sky. In the blink of an eye, it was gone. I didn't leave my post as now I was fully awake with no thoughts of returning to bed, even if it was well past midnight in this very quiet and dark neighborhood.

I wasn’t surprised to see a light again, this time a steady beam like someone searching for something a few feet away. It was not the original fuzzy circle. It moved back and forth, then off and then returning to the search.
After a considerable pause in this unexplained light show, I almost thought the show was over when the circle returned, now moving itself back and forth in a rocking motion. 

While observing all this, I was trying to figure out just where this light was. Had I ever seen a house near where I thought it was coming from?  I couldn't dig anything out of my memory except a little street a block away where I had walked almost a year before. In that place was a rather bare, open area of several plots with flimsy wire stretched across posts indicating ownership.  Some lots were bare and others had a small wooden shack, about to fall down, or even a couple of rusting, cancerous cars. 

Was someone there looking for some lost item? 

Was someone attempting to make a camp for the night, thinking no one would see him or her?

Could it be even more mysterious – right out of science fiction or maybe not fiction, a drone checking out the druggies in the neighborhood or even some police action? …  which wouldn't surprise me.

I watched the two different lights join together, the steady beam inside the fuzzy circle, and they moved together through the grove of trees without changing their shape The lights kept on moving toward the street below my house, and crossed Arroyo Street going right through a remodeled house and a long, boring, wooden fence they had built. The moving lights hadn’t bothered the house but a symbol was burned on the wooden fence – like a branding iron for cattle. There were small wisps of smoke emitting from an elongated circle with a horizontal line crossing in the middle.

I began to feel warmth as if the light was focused on me, moving directly in a straight path, sensing a live warm body; a naked body with arms resting on the windowsill, watching on this warm night. Fascinated, I watched then realizing there was only one house between the oncoming light and me.
Maybe I should go back to bed now, I thought. Too late as the light went through the house next door and across my parched, drought-stricken back yard, managing to burn a few weeds.  Then it stopped only a few feet from my window. 

The heat was intense but no flame. I could have reached out and touched the circle but I was frozen in spite of the heat. There it floated for maybe 30 seconds that seemed much longer. It’s hard to judge time when something so strange is happening! Then it made an abrupt 90 degree turn, going down my driveway. As its light faded, I felt as if my energy had gone with the symbol but I managed a 90 degree turn myself toward the bed. 

This time, I had no trouble falling asleep. I can’t forget that hot night – even if I wanted to – because there is a fuzzy circle with a straight line crossing it, imprinted on my concrete driveway that neighbors and strangers frequently ask me about.

It was a hot night to remember.

                  

                                                                  ***

Each year when the autumn breezes send golden leaves blustering into the air and the moonlit nights come early, town residents catch glimpses of a tiny orange-haired woman carrying a large canvas bag through town. She moves so steadily she seems to float down the sidewalks, long skirt trailing behind.  Some say they see her shopping at the Safeway, or reading in a dark corner of the library. One gossip insisted she saw her sitting in the balcony of the church on All Saints Day.

All her life Pippie Meriwether lived in a run-down Victorian home at the edge of town where her father’s formaldehyde-smelling taxidermy shop was located before it closed. The customers would drive down a long and winding dirt road lined with rows of thick trees and brush to deliver dead animals and pick up completed trophies.

 

When Pippie was a small child, these infrequent visitors often saw her tiny face peaking out from behind a large stuffed Grisly Bear.  Pippie seemed curious about the carcasses of deer or elk, and, uncommonly intrigued with the sight of lifeless Hawks and other birds of prey. She studied the way her dad would peal the feathers away one by one, store then in a wooden container, then secure them a feather at a time on a bare plaster image. She was delighted when he would place their claws and beaks in fighting positions.

Pippie would sit in the Meriwether’s dark, musty, book-lined library with her mother, who rarely left home, to listen as she read out loud.  Pippie’s favorite stories didn’t include Goldie Locks and the Three Bears, but instead, selections from the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft. By age five, Pippie developed the exceptional ability to memorize and recite verbatim anything she heard.

When it was time, her tall thin father, wearing black with a fedora on his head, drove her through the woods, down the long, curving road and around the corner to school in his old black Packard. The town’s parents warned their children not to play with the strange girl wearing the long dresses with lace collars. Pippie couldn’t help that she inherited her great-grandmother’s frizzy pumpkin colored hair, her dad’s oversized brown eyes, and her mother’s miniature stature and pointed nose.

Three weeks into first grade, Pippie picked up a dead Raven from the playground, caressed it and packed it in her lunch box and then presented it at show and tell a week later.  When she told about the bird, she recited:

”This ominous bird of yore,

This grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Croaks, `Nevermore, Nevermore.'”

The horrified teacher asked for the child to be removed from her class. From that time on Pippie's records were stamped “not normal.”  When she stopped attending school the authorities weren't concerned.  

 

There was some talk about the Meriwether family when her dad’s taxidermy shop closed, but soon other news occupied conversations.  Since no one ever saw her mother, her disappearance never even crossed their minds.

Years passed. No one drove down the dirt road. The Victorian home became dilapidated. Few people noticed tiny Pippie Meriwether, dressed in drab clothing, walking around town always carrying a large canvas bag. Fewer people noticed and no one mentioned the absence of stray cats.  

Once the librarian remarked, “That peculiar little carrot-haired woman always visits on Wednesdays and checks out six books, no more, no less. Three are 

about anatomy, two are about travel and one is a popular romance.  Don’t you find that strange?”

Every year on Halloween teenagers dared each other to venture down the winding forest road to knock on “the little witch’s” door.  Sometimes the brave ones threw rotten eggs or fruit at the dingy, decaying, broken-down house.

On that one, fateful Halloween night, not so many years ago, a full moon cast deep shadows from the rocks and trees leading up the craggy, twisting road to the Meriwether home.  As Willie Cravens and two of his buddies neared the house only one light shown in the downstairs window.  

“You go first,” said Harry Green to Willie.

“No, I’ll carry and throw the tomatoes since I’m the best thrower.” 

“Yeah!  You’re so brave,” added Bubba Parker.

The trio tiptoed up the front walk avoiding brambles and loose rocks.  

“BOO!”

“Damn it Willie.  You do that again and I’m out of here.”

“Shhhh!  She’s gonna hear us,” whispered Bubba. 

“Hey man.  Look.  The front door is open.”  Willie peaked inside the dark house.

“Now what’re we gonna do?” Harry stood back, eyes wide and hands trembling.

“I say let’s go in.”  Willie took the lead.  The other two boys followed him in the squeaky front door. 

One lamp, shaped like a parrot, cast a faint red glow in the entry hall . The boys tiptoed through an ornate archway into the adjoining parlor.

“Oh my God.”  Bubba tripped and fell down. “It’s a bear.  I thought it was real for a minute, but it’s stuffed.”  

“Oh, geez.  Look at this place.”  Harry screeched as the threesome gazed around the dimly lit room. “What’s that smell?”

“Yikes!”  Bubba jumped as something slid against his leg. 

“It’s only a cat.”  Willie set the bag of tomatoes on the floor.

“It’s only a gillion cats,” said Harry surrounded by meowing creatures.  

“Caw, Caw.”

“What’s that?” Harry gasped.

“Oh man! Shit and damn! Look at this room.” Bubba led them into to a book-lined library, cats following, hissing and yowling. “It’s filled with birds.”

The sound of cats crying and birds squawking was deafening. “Yiiiiii! Freaky!” Willie shrieked. “The cats are going crazy.”

Harry yelled over the jarring clamor. “Ohhhh, shit and damn, too. This whole house is full of dead animals.”

In panic, the boys rushed out the front door, running down the road like Olympic sprinters. Willie’s parents heard their shrieks before they saw the out of breath, wide-eyed, frightened boys.

“I’m telling you, mom, that place is bizarre!” Willie panted.

“Mrs. Cravens, there are animals all over, some are dead.”  Harry was almost in tears. 

“It smelled like a barnyard or something worse!” Bubba collapsed on to the floor.

“Boys, boys! I’m so ashamed of you. That poor little woman! She never bothers a soul.  You boys will apologize and do it right now,” said Willie’s mom.

“But mom, I don’t ever want to go there again.”

The three boys followed Willie’s parents down the moonlit road.  The old house’s yard was full of cats slithering here and there. Birdcalls greeted them at the still-opened front door. The raunchy odor was overpowering. After a short wait with no response, Mr. Cravens ushered his family through the vaulted entry hall and into the creepy structure.  There was no sign of Pippie Meriwether, but there was plenty to see on that frightful night the Cravens entered the old Victorian in the woods.

Every Halloween the town’s people share the story.  They tell about Pippie Meriwether; about the dozens of cats that lived in every room; about the three owls, one hawk, six ravens and two eagles that lived in the library; about the multitudes of posed, stuffed trophies, mostly cats, found in every dark corner both downstairs and upstairs. 

 

But …… most of all, the tales are about the majestically mounted taxidermist still wearing his black suit, fedora on his head. He was standing beside his statue-like wife. She was beautifully preserved, sitting in a library chair with a copy of “The Raven” in her lap. 

The authorities never located Pippie Meriwether for questioning about the strange discoveries. She was last seen driving an old black Packard heading northeast on the highway, orange hair blowing in the wind, disappearing into the night.

However, when the autumn breezes send golden leaves blustering into the air and the moonlit nights come early, it’s a well-known fact that Pippie Meriwether wanders. And, on every Halloween she floats down the winding road, through the woods to her old home to reminisce.  

Just ask anyone in town.

                                                        ***

Two A's   Lucille Hamilton

In November the fog would roll in so thick you wouldn't know there was a river down there, at the bottom of the cliffs.  The house was old, made of stone and big enough for the big families of that time. Although there were five children to split the property, only two were interested. The others wanted to move out into the nearby city.  So the house went to Alice and Agnes.  Alice was the elder by six years, and while this made for edginess between them in their younger years, this seemed to disappear over time.

They decided to share the house, dividing up the chores as well as the space.  Agnes, who loved to cook and  garden, took up weaving baskets, using the reeds from the river directly below the house.  Alice, on the other hand, had always wanted to have sheep so she would be able to card and dye their wool into yarn for weaving.  The two laughed, saying that maybe later they might open up a B&B.

In a few years, Alice met Arthur and, after a honeymoon of sorts, he became a member of the household with the three getting along well.  Also, he helped relieve Alice of the rounding up of the sheep, freeing her to have more time

for her weaving for which she was becoming well known.

The days seemed to fall into a peaceful routine, Agnes out under the cliffs selecting reeds, Alice with her weaving and sheep, and Arthur helping Alice with her growing herd.

One night, Agnes broke an antique platter that was part of Alice's inheritance.  It didn't seem important at the time, but it was.  It opened up the whole festering inheritance issue: the “You got the painting you knew I always wanted and what's more you've taken it into your side of the house so I never see it anymore,"  sort of thing.  It got so out of hand that they would sit at opposite ends of the table, passing food when requested, but never speaking.  The  situation got utterly out of hand. Things they had shared began to disappear into one or the other's part of the house.  After some initial attempts to question these disappearances, nothing more was said.  The level of resentment became hatred to the degree it was almost palpable.

It was after such a day in late November, that Alice, upstairs with the beginnings of a cold, asked Agnes if she would mind going with Arthur to help get the sheep into their pen.  Agnes nodded her reply and put on her dark winter coat and shoes, before going out with Arthur into the foggy night.

Alice made herself a nice, warm rum toddy and retired with a good book.  It got late and later, and no signs of the two. Towards midnight, Alice heard something at the door and opened it to Arthur, but no Agnes.   "Oh, good dog!” she said, "good dog!”, welcoming the sheep dog in from the dark and petting the huge animal.  "Oh Arthur, you're such a good herder, such a good, good herder.”  

Alice finished her toddy, folded her book and went to sleep, Arthur at her bedside.  She phoned the police the next day to notify them that Agnes was missing.

Agnes was found two days later, dead among her beloved reeds. As there was no suggestion of a crime having been committed it never occurred to the police to think Arthur might have given Agnes a good shove off the cliff as wherever would a dog have gotten such an idea?

The following spring, having hired some help, Alice opened the house as a B&B, changing Agnes' old side into an exclusive apartment with a superb view of, and convenient to, a famous international city.  The Tourist Bureau, on inspection, apologized for giving her only a double “A” rating, explaining that the third “A” could not be given as the B&B was not actually in the city. 

Alice, on the other hand, couldn't have been happier.  She chose to think the two “A”s stood simply for Alice and Arthur.

                                    ***

Sherman's March  Dave Lewis

Sherman and Lois had been living together for 3 years. Like many Yuppie couples  having satisfactory employment and no desire to raise kids, they weren’t interested in the institution of marriage and it wasn’t even discussed.  It had an unintended bonding factor since each party realized how liquid their union was. Either party could walk off without legal or financial hassles which always made the emotional part of a separation more intense and possibly wounding. 

They had just moved to Sonoma, CA from LA on the first of March. It wasn’t Sherman’s idea but he agreed since he was self-employed. Lois campaigned hard for the move because of a job offer she had received that excited her for reasons that Sherman couldn’t comprehend.  The resulting relocation was OK with Sherman but Lois, who pushed for it in the first place, missed the tinsel and excitement in LA.  She realized that her secret, incubating, dream of being “discovered” by a movie studio was now unlikely.  When the movie moguls were in Sonoma they were partying, not casting.  However, any regrets she had were dissolved by her new boss, Clark.  Clark was like an intellectual version of a suit model.  At least that was the plot of her day-dreams since she started working with him . 

Sherman found that he was learning more about Clark than he really cared to know as Lois would chatter on about his athletic prowess, his thick curly hair, his elegant manicures, and his bright red Mercedes convertible.  Sherman finally realized that in none of those attributes was he a worthy competitor. Lois had recently suggested that Sherman consider “comb-overs”; Sherman usually didn’t even comb straight.

Last Saturday, Lois asked Sherman to do the grocery shopping and he agreed.  She got out a pink notepad and wrote quite a long list of groceries and supplies that filled up the whole page. Sherman read it over and understood all of the details. Lois insisted he shop at Lucky’s ; then she handed over five cloth bags to carry it all. Sherman folded the list up to fit his shirt pocket and headed for the  store.  He had never been into the shopping center on a Saturday morning. He was surprised at how few parking places were left.

When Sherman got a cart and started canvasing the store he reached for the list in his shirt pocket. It was gone!  He searched all of his pockets several times – no list. He spent about 10 minutes poking around the store entrance and then decided to track back to his car.  It is a big parking lot and he had forgotten exactly where he had parked his car! He realized he’d have to sweep in a pattern to cover his forgotten path. He was hoping the pink paper would be easy to spot.  The aisles in that lot are long and wide. Cars go through the lot pretty fast and they are usually distracted from obstacles during their quest for an empty space.  Sherman had to dodge several times in his search, nearly nailed by a pick-up truck, a blue low-rider, and a red Mercedes. He finally found his car and was delighted to see a folded pink paper by the back bumper. He snatched it up, put it back securely in his shirt pocket, and buttoned the flap.  

Sherman went back to the store, paying attention to the route this time, got a cart and re-entered the store.  Turning left into the produce section, he pulled out the list and opened it. It wasn’t the grocery list!  Right away he saw that it was a note, addressed to someone else.  Then he read it several times.  The pink paper could have been a coincidence but the hand writing was definitely Lois’. The brief note said:

Clark Darling,
After I call you Saturday, Sherm will have left for the Luckys store. The license number of his car is  8DEZ 218.  It is a bright yellow BMW. Just let all of the air out of his tires. Then, with the shopping, he will be tied up for three or four hours.  I’ll be in the Best Western Motel in room 128. Park around the back next to my car where you’ll be out of sight.  I am so looking forward to being close to you again!  
Love, Lois

After the third reading, Sherman had figured things out.  He didn’t bother with the shopping but he did buy a bag of baking potatoes. His BMW has “run flat” tires, made to stand 50 miles of emergency traveling with a flat. There is a gas station with air 100 yards away. While filling the tires he opened the car’s trunk to put the cloth shopping bags back in it. That is where the grocery list had fallen out of his pocket. He considered it a really lucky accident. As he was closing his banking accounts,  canceling phone and internet service, power and gas, he thought about that list many times.  While he was emptying his stuff out of the apartment, he thought about it more.

On the back of the note Lois sent to Clark, he wrote:
Lois- hope you and Clark had a nice afternoon.  
Good bye, 
Sherman.

He left the revised note on Lois’ desk. Then he went to the Best Western Motel and let the air out of the tires on Lois’ car and the red Mercedes. He stuffed a potato in each of the Mercedes’ exhaust pipes

Sherman relocated further North – on the ocean. He framed the pink grocery list. Only the blank side was visible. He always kept it above his typewriter as a mystic token of Good Luck. This had been a hectic March.

                                            ***

                                    ***

Michael in Room 147  Beverly Koepplin

It had been a long day, and I stood apart from the crowd that still danced in the ballroom. The bride and groom had joined their guests in some crazy line dance, and I watched with a smile pasted on my face, foot-sore in my satin high heels and confined in my scarlet taffeta dress. Like hell I’d ever wear this dress again, I thought. Waste of my money and only done because the bride and I were close cousins. But I was happy for her, and as I watched her and her new husband celebrate, I was slightly envious. I had never been married, and the prospects of possible husbands were dwindling down from few to none. Oh well, no use feeling sorry for myself, and I moved off to the bar to get another glass of champagne, stumbling slightly from either the unaccustomed heels or the champagne I’d been sipping all evening, or both. Better make this my last glass and is it too early to cut out, I wondered.

As I stood at the bar, waiting my turn, I gazed around the room, my eyes finding yet again the tall dark handsome man who stood at the edge of the dance floor. I had noticed him all evening, even caught him staring at me. He was dressed entirely in black except for his red cummerbund and the red lining in his dinner jacket. His darkness suited his somber air, and while he was not off-putting in any specific way, something about his stillness bothered me. Like a lion watching his prey, I thought. Be careful of this one. I turned to get my champagne from the bartender, and then wandered off to the sign the guest book while I still remembered to do so. Then, I thought, I’d finish this glass, find the bathroom, and start bidding my adieus.  It was time to go, I decided, time to dash out in the cold rain and find my way home.

When I straightened up from the guest book table, I found the tall dark man next to me. I was startled; he had moved so silently that I had not heard him approach. He smiled and, bowing slightly, he apologized for startling me and asked if I cared to join him in the next dance. I cocked my head, listening to the tune that had just started, and decided I would take this one chance before I left. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. As he held out his hand, I moved to the floor with him where he folded me in his arms, not too close but close enough for me to follow his lead. And he could dance. I soon relaxed in his arms, closed my eyes and swayed to the music, letting him steer me lightly across the ballroom. I even dismissed my feelings of uneasiness, chiding myself for suspecting there was anything amiss with this man. I found I was now so close to him that my cheek rested against his chest, and I smelled a slight hint of smoke, like his shirt had been scorched or he had been near something that had been burning. Oh well, it adds to the masculine touch and the mystery of him, I thought.

He was silent as we danced, but when the song ended he inclined his head inquiringly at me and asked if I would dance with him again. I nodded my assent. One more dance, and I will leave, I promised myself. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed dancing with someone who did it so well. And who knows when the next time will be? Again, I relaxed in his arms, snuggling even closer and let myself drift off. I realized he was whispering something in my ear, so I tuned back in and listened. He said he had been watching me all evening and was intrigued by me, telling me that he very glad to have the pleasure of dancing with me.  He had an English accent that tickled at my senses.  I could listen to him all night, I thought.

Soon that dance ended. He smoothly set me on my feet, holding onto my hands as he explained that he needed to leave as he was expecting an important call, but that he had taken a room in the hotel and would be very glad to have me join him there for a nightcap. I explained that was something I was not comfortable with, going to a stranger’s room alone. With an arched eyebrow, he exclaimed, “The devil you say! You are so alluring that I know you are no stranger to a walk on the wild side. Come with me. It is wretched out, and I will keep you warm.” And I found myself nodding, thinking I would go up for one drink before I set out in the horrible weather for home.  It couldn’t hurt, I thought.

We agreed to meet in his room in ten minutes, then we parted. I found my wrap, said my goodbyes, visited the restroom, and made my way to the elevator. While the elevator rose to the next floor, I found myself regretting my decision. Well, you’re a big girl, I said to myself. You can have one drink and then take off. Surely, this man is a gentleman. And then I realized I did not even know his name, though the name Michael floated through my brain, so he must have introduced himself while we danced and I had been lost in his smooth moves.

As I got off the elevator, I shrugged off my uneasiness and walked toward room 147. As I got closer, I noticed the hall was unusually warm, and I took off my wrap. Must be something wrong with the HVAC in this area, I thought. I also noticed a stale smell of smoke. Whatever had happened in the corridor, I hoped his room would be cooler and aired out. I knocked on the door and waited for him to open, watching an odd red light flicker under the doorway.  Can’t be a lava lamp, surely, not in this ritzy old hotel.

And then he opened the door, and all hell broke loose.
                     
                                          ***

The Art of Managing Life  Lucille Hamilton

Looking back, I can call it that, but I certainly wouldn’t have given it that name, at that time, when I think one such was called for, as when you’re trying to get your kids into the car or bus to go visit grandma and pa. There’s a reluctance on their part to leave the house on a free-from-school weekend ,

and so persuasion - the gentle art of persuasion - well, let’s call it what it is: control (and threats) come to the rescue, and the trip goes off on time, etc, etc. Not as easy to do when your husband, who’s feeling lousy, refuses to go for a check-up as he doesn’t like going to the doctor. You get him there, but is there a printable name for how you did it?

We hone these arts over time. They get recognized for what they are, so any alternative method is seen for just what it is: at threat or a bribe,based on tired, worn-out repetition.

What is the alternative? There are several, but one is just “letting go.” The magnificent art which gift is so difficult to unwrap. It challenges our very meaning, our position, etc., in life. Will we have any value if we let go.... any value to others, but also to our selves - are we valuable after letting go of all those life-long habits that served us so well?

Well, you could look it up and find out that there is a lot of thought given to this subject. It can be quite a discovery of new attitudes you’ll uncover about your self, about the importance of dusting, of putting away your clothes, of joining the ..... club that sponsors the ....., of resigning from years of volunteering at the..... for the local whatever, and so on.

If you try letting go, it takes great courage. Your responses have become a reflex, an old routine, even an addiction which is a habit you fall back on and can’t resist its easy solution. You might want to be gentle - as well as firm - with your self, plunging in, as you would be, to a new version of

who you are with your new decisions.

Ultimately, in the long, life run, it’s much better than a new face lift or Harley-Davidson or - and this is stretching it a bit - a lovely beach house a half day’s flight away, a different kind of  investment entirely.

And, of course, since old habits die hard, you can always revert back to the art you know so well.

                                    ***

What's In A Number?  Joan Shepherd

George slammed  the door as he left, a final gesture of his anger. He had been arguing with his wife over the bills that seemed to accumulate in the UNPAID stack. She blamed him, he blamed her, they both blamed his striking-looking boss, Phyllis, who authorized his paltry salary at the Newcastle News where he was the newest reporter.  He simply didn‘t make enough money, according to the wife who came from a family that never even had to discuss money. Before she married George money was available when she wanted it. Not now, she thought. 

It really wasn’t money they were discussing. They we're getting tired of each other, a premature seven year itch. 
Why did I ever think marrying him and living in Little River would be fun. She couldn’t help hearing him slam the door as he left and thought, “Good! I’ll go out too.”

She stepped on something just outside the door of their apartment, 147. The numbers had come loose from the door with only the 4 remaining in place.  A # 1 and  #7 in cheap silver-colored tin letters, with one hole for a nail in the top, were now on the floor, falling off the nail when the door was slammed in frustration. Room 147 was now Room 4. She laughed out loud . Number 4 Triple Pine Lane sounded more sophisticated than 147.

The Smithton’s living in 145, heard the slammed door, and waited a few minutes before peeking out the door. Mr Smithton saw the numbers on the floor, saw nails still in the door, and thought he’d play a joke by making it read 741.
The original door slammer, George, returned home after a few drinks, saw the number and thought he got off on the wrong floor. Perplexed in his present state, he got back into the elevator to discover there was no 7th floor. About then the UPS delivery driver had a package for 147, saw the 741 on the door with the confused owner still shaking his head.

”Isn;t this the first floor?” he asked and got a shrug of shoulders and head in reply. Now the wife returns, sees the 741 instead of just #4, and starts yelling at her husband for putting the numbers on incorrectly, then notices the UPS man and in a sweet voice asks what he is doing there. He’s looking for Mrs. Clayton at 147. “Oh, goodie, that’s me!” but he needs proof and she’ll have to come to the truck and sign some papers. As if on cue, Mr. Smithton returns wondering what all the voices are about. “Damned if I know” is George’s answer. “I’m looking for my own Room 147 and this is 741 but there is no 7th floor.” Mr. Smithton, the neighbor, laughs, admitting he was the one that switched the numbers. “That really is your place, 147”, he tells George and adds, “I can see you are confused. Let’s walk outside, down the block, and I’ll buy you a drink at Cornerspace.”

They both waved at the wife who was still talking and flirting with the UPS driver. “Bye, Honey” the husband said and staggered, with Mr. Smithton’s help, down the street.

                                     ***

Memorial Service Helen Rowntree

Mary Acosta died two weeks ago. St. Leo’s church is filled with family and friends, all gathered here to pay their respects to the family. There must be 500 people here today. The children and grandchildren dressed in their Sunday best. Musicians, the choir, members of the local opera society. The family has now entered and is filling up the first pew. Father Kelly sits near the altar, two acolytes beside him in their dark gowns and white surplices. The organ sounds its sonorous opening chord, the flutist, the harp, blend in.  Nothing is too much today.

Father Kelly:

I definitely prefer doing memorial services as opposed to weddings. It’s not that I’m ghoulish and enjoy seeing people weeping copiously, suffering through the loss of a dear one. No. That’s not it. It’s just that I hate dealing with brides, their mothers, caterers, florists, photographers, wedding planners and the whole retinue of people that you have to deal with to put a wedding together. I thoroughly dislike weddings. So much fuss and bother. On the other hand, I am glad when I can offer comfort to a family at such a difficult time. This service is going to be a bit difficult.  I need to forget that I was Mary’s personal confessor.  I can’t think about what I know.

Everybody is here. There must be 500 people. Better not ask Tony to say anything. He seems totally distraught. Guilt or sorrow? Probably both. Well, I’d better get started. The mass is said. Communion has been dispensed.  Now it’s time for the eulogies.

“Dear family and friends: We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Mary Acosta, one of the most important and impressive women in our community. I am privileged to have known Mary since she and Tony were married in this church 45 years ago. I can’t think of anyone who has done more good for this community than Mary. No task was ever too great, no need too pressing and no good cause too exhausting for Mary to tackle. She always managed to find time to help those in need, while at the same time tending to her home, her three children and her husband. As you all know, Tony owns and manages the oldest winery in this area and the demands on his energies have been great.  And over the years,  Mary was always there to give him the support and assistance he needed.

Mary Acosta was not only an exemplary wife and mother, but also a talented operatic singer, a singer who could have graced the stage at the Metropolitan Opera house had she not chosen to forgo a promising career in favor of love and family. She was the driving force behind the establishment of our own Wine Country Opera house. On countless Sundays her voice filled this sanctuary in praise of our Lord. For many years she directed our choir and played the organ until her health forced her to resign. Mary has left a void in all of our lives and we will carry her in our hearts forever. Now I invite the family and friends to please come up to the podium and share with us, their own personal experiences with Mary.   Thank you.”

Tony, the widower:

Well I’m sure not going to get up there and speak. Yes, Mary was a wonderful woman...to everyone except me, her husband of 45 years. What a laugh! Husband! She kicked me out of bed 20 years ago, but would never give me a divorce. She said I had lost her respect and she couldn’t make love to a man she didn’t respect. What nonsense! What did she think, that all the money we accumulated over the years grew on the vines? Didn’t she realize that many times I had to make deals, go into other businesses, sometimes with people you wouldn’t invite to dinner? How did she think we could afford to live the way we did if it hadn’t been for my ability to smoke out a good deal? Mary, Mary! Always so prim and proper. She expected me to live like a monk. No sex, not even once during those 20 years. But, Oh Yes! We had to keep up appearances. We couldn’t hurt the children. And we were Catholic. Good thing we had adjoining rooms or else everybody would have known that Tony Acosta had a wife in name only. Hey! I was still young, virile. I had needs. She left me no choice. I’m lucky I found Amanda. Now there’s a woman who knows how to make love. Nothing is off limits with her.  She can still make me feel and perform like a young buck.  But still...yes.   Mary was the heart of the family.  Somehow, it feels strange.  I can’t believe she’s really gone. I can’t believe I feel empty.

Amanda, the Mistress:

Look at that old goat! He sits there simpering as if he really cared that Mary is gone. For fifteen years I have lived a lie. For fifteen years I have waited for Tony to leave Mary and make an honest woman of me. It hasn’t been easy, hiding, pretending that I was just a friend of the family. The spinster, Mary’s closest friend. The one she always came to for advice. Godmother to their youngest child. At first I felt guilty, but then I convinced myself I had a right to be happy and Mary had brought this on herself.

Sometimes I wonder why I got involved with Tony. There had always been a strong attraction there in spite of our age difference. Tony and my dad were competitors, but they were also good friends. Our families had settled in the valley three generations ago and have prospered side by side. They represent wine in this region. Nobody has more vineyards, nobody produces more wine than the Acostas and the Pinellis. I don’t need Tony’s money. My father left me well fixed and my brothers take care of the business. I’ve had many suitors over the past 15 years, but I could never break away once I took Tony into my bed. It was hard at first when I still lived in the main house, but I persuaded Dad to build a little house for me, up on the hill, at the edge of our property, adjacent to the far end of Tony’s vineyards. I told Dad I needed a place of my own. I wanted my own home even if I remained single. He was resigned to the fact I would never marry. He just didn’t know why. Now Tony had better marry me. He has no excuses now.  First it was his reputation.  Then he couldn’t divorce in the Catholic church. Then our families would be alienated and the community would be in shock. He has no excuses now.

The Doctor:

I couldn’t save you, Mary. By the time you came to see me, the cancer was too far advanced. It had metastasized into the lymph glands and finally entered your bones. Oh Mary! Why did you wait so long? How am I ever going to live without you? After Grace died I never thought I could ever love anyone again. Then I met you.

How innocently it all started--- two frustrated singers working to get our little opera house off the ground; you did most of the work: fundraising, performing, recruiting talent, singers, musicians. You were amazing. You brought new meaning into my busy life. Before that, it was all work and no play.

I’m not complaining. I love my work, but my whole life was centered around my patients and the hospital. My friends were my colleagues. Then I met you at that hospital fundraiser. You told me you were looking for tenors for a local opera company you were putting together. I told you that as a young medical student I had also trained as a singer. You encouraged me to come for an audition, I said I was too rusty.  “Nonsense,” you said. And so it all began.

How long ago? Fifteen years? We soon discovered we enjoyed singing together and the audiences loved to hear us perform together. Then we fell in love. You told me we were both too old for romance and that you would never divorce Tony. You couldn’t hurt the children and scandalize the community. I accepted your decision and contented myself with an occasional meeting in the City - ostensibly on opera house business.  How I hated that, sneaking around like a couple of thieves.

Now you’re gone and I can’t even grieve for you openly.

Father Kelly:

“I want to express my appreciation to all the family and friends for sharing so many stories about Mary. How many Marys have we eulogized here today? Mary the loving wife and mother. Mary the singer, the teacher, the entrepreneur. We will always remember this extraordinary woman  and the special way she touched our lives.

Now she is with her Lord. May she rest in peace.

                                                ***