Saturday, December 26, 2020

ERIN CHRISTMAS

 Erin Christmas

by

Charles Mitchell Turner



     The oppressive midsummer sun spread a stifling mantle above the divided land. Inside the city walls hummed a smug citizenry, like a throng of fat bees. Outside were the drones, struggling with heartbreak and starvation. Of these, an old man foraging for food came up with a few grubs and a questionable root that had a pungent odor. So absorbed and light-headed became he, the oldster absently wandered too near a checkpoint, coming on, head down, rheumy eyes barely open, the ravages of time hounds at his heels. 

     He had no business out on his own. Going by appearance, he might carry plague; one could not know. And so, the fearful young soldier attacked to drive him away. 

     The dotard had no idea of the blows he received, in fact already lay on the ground before becoming aware the gargantuan youth in gray fatigues and heavy boots came at him more. His mind relayed pain in a detached, unemotional way. It is probable he would have been beaten to death but for the staying hand of an older, less murderous fellow in a captain’s uniform. The two troops moved behind the gate, allowing him to crawl away. He pulled himself off the hot asphalt, losing consciousness in the bush, nearly smothered in his own mucus.


     One eye opened to the lower east side jungle. He was on a mat of decayed cardboard, with a chunk of foam rubber under his head. The closed eye felt grossly swollen. A filthy rag testified to the cleansing effort made to his wounds.

     He sought a point of familiarity, perhaps some landmark he knew, but the hurting kept him from lifting his head. He could not see so far anyway. He relaxed on the makeshift bed, drifting out of consciousness.

     After an indeterminate time, he roused to feel himself being raised and spoons full of warm broth pushed through his lips. The one eyelid laboriously lifted, revealing the blurred vision of a woman with a red growth about her mouth and glassy white eyes. Her witch’s tangle of long brittle hair rivaled his own matted, mossy growth, white hair with a beard hiding his craggy face. He grunted appreciatively, greedily swallowing the watery soup.

     For her part the crone was silent, her nut-brown face a solemn mask. She slid the last of the flavorless liquid down his throat and eased his head back on the pillow. She carried the utensils off to clean them, using what medium G/d only knew. She put them in a sack by a pile of seemingly worthless belongings. The old man mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

     Again he drifted away in sleep.

     A commotion deeper in the hobo jungle awakened him. It was a whole day later and he felt somewhat better, although he found himself unable to walk. The woman was gone, apparently foraging, the one vocation left to the poor outside the city walls. He propped his aching bones against a tree, straining his ears to learn why a group of inhabitants was being so noisy. To his gaze, they were like a body of dark liquid. A drop squeezed from the whole, a small figure swinging its limbs in great anger. The being came into somewhat of a focus, bending before him.

     “There you are,” it said. “Why did you not come back?”

     “I could not,” he began. “Walk,” he concluded after a bit.

     He knew his beloved Pumpkinpulp.

     “Problem? Over there?”

     “Ah, not really. The big one called me ’dwarf.’ The drunk said, ’No; he’s a midget.’ Sassyfrassin’ junedunkers.”

      “That was it, the whole of it?”

     The elf had not the heart to inform him that he was the problem.

     “Get that old bones away from here. He snores something fierce and he stinks.”

     And, while it is true everyone in the jungle was dirty, he did have a particular stench that made even Pumpkinpulp blanch.

     “Move him or we will,” a manlike woman had threatened.

     “I will move him,” the diminutive one responded angrily. “You bunch a simians. That man is a saint.”

     “An unwashed saint.”

     “A rotten saint.”

     Now, the small one, regarding him with hands on hips, smiling sardonically, had to agree with them. Such a stink! Perhaps when the nearly divine dies the decomposition is accelerated because the fading one has experienced life to the nth degree and so would taste death in equal intensity. 

     “Let’s have a look at you,” the small one said dubiously.

     The clothing pulled away revealed that a leg tended to gangrene.

     “Ouch. A long, unrelenting ache.”

     In one ear was blood.

     “Have you tried standing?”

     “Yes. It’s hopeless.”

     “I want to move you.”

     “A travois. I saw a donkey -”

     “Before or after your head got kicked?”

     “I think I imagined it.”

     “Those junedunkers spoke of the woman who brought you here. Cursed her for a she-dog and more. I saw her corpse where they dropped it. She had a donkey, all right. They robbed it and her food.”

     Pumpkinpulp took the filthy rag and wiped the old one’s nose. 

     The old one said, “At one time I could have summoned a hundred elves, a thousand, even.”

     The helpless one sneezed, prompting the elf to grimly employ the rag again. As he did so, he remarked he would return in a bit; he had some bargaining to do with the big man running the miscellany of cutthroats over there.

     “Perhaps that fellow might be persuaded to move you if I pay with one of my best knives.”

* * *

     The Richcity streets were quiet in the low afternoon. Erin, the adventurer, strode with a swagger down a residential one, with a thought to seek out a friendly countenance and use the wearer of the face to insinuate himself into the population. He knew he could make a wonderful soldier or anything else he set his mind to, given the chance. So sure was he of his charm and spunk, he had not a doubt it would transpire.

     He wore a cheery grin as he rounded a corner and spied a rosy maid cuddling a kitten, looking down over a patio rail. Did he detect a returned smile? Vainglorious, he strutted before her, grinning broadly at the comely features that could do so much for him.

     “I am Erin,” he proclaimed. “May I chat with you?”

     The fair damsel motioned him near, becoming dryly sober.

     “You are an outcast,” she stated. “What good are you to me?”

     “I am resourceful, intelligent, strapping, an insatiable lover …”

     The maiden flushed. She spoke out to her father in the recess near the door.

     “He is near enough,” spoke the lure.

     A bearded man, with cruel gray eyes, came from the shadow, training a long barrel at him. The maid had, fortunately, alerted him a half-second too soon. He eluded the rapid-fire potshots, traipsing between rows of apartment dwellings and regaining his path to the outside world. 

     He scaled a twisted oak tree, dove over the parapet into the jungle of growth, jumping from the matted foliage to the moist earth below. The brash adventurer jogged deep into a nearby hobo jungle, threading between lean-tos and debris from fallen buildings, followed by suspicious eyes. He ducked under the low branches of a great willow tree, hiding in its hanging leaves, laughing over the ease with which he had avoided paying a penalty for being caught inside a Richcity’s walls. He might have lingered indefinitely but for a commotion at a cluster of rusted metal shelters. He stepped out to witness the antics of a tiny fellow being chased by a man of brawn.

     The hulking one grabbed the smaller foe, attempting to wrest an object from his grip. The tiny one’s hands were incredibly strong. He wrested it free, plunging what proved to be a knife into the greater one’s flesh. The big man shot a piston-like blow to the elf’s jaw, sending him crashing into a pile of rubbish. Pumpkinpulp rebounded, weapon at the ready. 

     The wounded man staggered away; the dirk not worthy of his life.

     “Keep it, you insect,” he shouted.

     The elf made a face over the insult but sheathed the blade.

     “Show’s over,” he said to the young man by the willow, standing motionless, dappled by leaves and sun.

     Erin turned to go, the breadth of his shoulders and the swell of his arms apparent.

     “Wait up,” the elf said. “I would pay you to assist me.”

     Erin paused.

     “Pay? With what?”

     “How about this knife?”

     “You don’t need it?”

     “I have several. How about it?”

     The young one had been sidling up as they spoke. Wily Pumpkinpulp edged away, prepared to fight as often as necessary to protect his property.

     “I am not one for labor,” Erin admitted. “I am an adventurer.”

     “So you’re a thief,” the exasperated elf said. “Look, I have an injured comrade to move. He is mostly skeleton, but it is a matter of miles. Help me and the blade is yours.”

     Erin compared his own poor knife, dull, nicked, point broken off and stuck out his hand.

     “Let me look,” he said.

     The small one pointed.

     “The old one is propped against the tree, yonder.”

     “At the knife.”

     The elf held it up, comfortably out of reach. It was a work of beauty, of the finest, sharpest steel.

     “Such a handle. No way it is slipping.”

     “Friend -”

     “Don’t call me that.”

     “- I will do it. But, if he is diseased, that knife will be the death of you.”

     “Don’t worry. Gather stuff to make a gurney. If you could scrounge a set of wheels, even better.”

     Erin went off to find the items, fretting that the mission seemed too much like actual work.

     The ancient elf discovered that the old man had weakened in the past hour, his ravaged body slumped against the rough bark, eyes closed, no detectable movement. Feeling no breath on the back of his hand, the hob raised with his thumb the one working eyelid.

     “Shut it. I am resting.”

     “I am almost ready to move you.”

     “Too late. I am already dying.”

     “My friend -”

     “Help me to lie down. It is all I need.”

     * * *

     The small one sat atop a pile of the old woman’s rubble, looking steadily at the old man. Soon the vigil would end. A montage of their years together ran through his mind, of when the dying friend had been an unknown beardless whelp, all the way to the height of his career when the entire world would break off the fighting in the spirit of perfect peace one whole day each year. They had been a team, although he got the glitter, Pumpkinpulp the grit. No, it was not fair to characterize it like that. Each deserved full credit. But, all things in the universe turn. New becomes old and gets pushed aside. Together this man and the human will to prevail became weak. The powerful built the heartless cities, the masses became hobos. Pity humankind- -the inglorious, reeking bag of bones, the spark feeding the world, must expire. Now, total famine.

     Eric came, towing a cart borrowed from an unattended habitation. He swore he would return it. He wheeled it over to the bed of rotten cardboard, prepared to lift the vile carcass onto the platform.

     “Ah, forget it,” the elf said. “He won’t be moving at all. However, I feel I owe you the knife. So, here it is.”

     Erin greedily snatched the dirk, holding it up to admire it.

     “Man without knife- -not good,” he grunted.

     Pumpkinpulp had dismissed the adventurer from his thought, redirecting his attention to the old one. When Erin persisted in hanging close out of curiosity, the elf snarled at him.

     “Begone, junedunker.”

     “Sorry. I just felt, somehow, involved. Guess I should be on my way.”

     “That would be the gist of it,” the small one agreed. “This great saint from the past, whose sphere has shrunk to a miserable pallet, should pass peacefully, without the idly curious standing around.”

     Erin sheathed the precious dagger, pitching the old blade onto the rubbish heap.

     “Good-bye, then. Sorry about his dying, sir.”

     The ancient one croaked a string of unintelligible words.

     “What did he say?” Erin wondered.

     The next spate they understood.

     “Come here, young man.”

     He looked to Pumpkinpulp for direction. The elf was noncommittal.

     “Come- -here.”

     Erin knelt, putting his ear near the old one’s mouth.

     “Your name?”

     “Erin, sir. I’m an adventurer.”

     “Would you like to hear a story, Erin?”

     “Very much, sir.”

     The one open eye had glazed, becoming sightless. 

     Striving to not be sickened by the smell, the young man attended attentively.

     “There was one like you,” the old one said in a weak whisper. “Pugnacious, saucy, quick-witted, strong. No goals, no ties to anything.”

     Pumpkinpulp had moved in very close, his raggedy hat off, twisting it in his hands. Tears ran unrestrainedly down his cheeks.

     The old one continued.

     “He came to me over twenty-five hundred years ago, the first of his ilk. Nothing special, in the scheme of things, one would surmise. But, one would then be wrong.”

     The eye closed. There ensued half a snore. The tale-teller awoke to resume the narrative.

     “Have you heard of Christmas, Father Christmas? The young man came to me, as I say. He heard and understood and because he assented the world became a better place. It did not descend to become the dismal sewer it is today until a few hundred years ago, when I was struck by an astral fever, weakening the universal will to peace. I recognize in you the same properties that can again save the festering masses from themselves. If you could do it; save the world, make it flower, would you?”

     “I suppose I would. I don’t really understand where you are going with this.”

     “Touch my soul if you want to save Christmas.”

     “How do I do that?”

     “I think you know.”

     “I don’t. I …”

     He took one of the skeletal hands in his own in a caressing move, becoming instantly electrified. He felt the power draining out of his soul and then his body, all in an instant, folding in upon himself, becoming a heap of dross. The recipient sat up, vibrant and youthful. He looked to the elf.

     “As I was the day we met, so I am this day. A new age for humankind has already begun to germinate in most every heart and soul.”

     Pumpkinpulp must grouse.

     “Why didn’t you tell me to bring a youth? Save me the turmoil?”

     “Because, dear friend, Erin as the one and only had to find me, not I him. As I have no last name to call him, in the lexicon he shall be known henceforth as Erin Christmas.”

     “We are to revive the shop, then? The elves will come if you say it.”

     “Yes. Think you could find me some reindeer?”  

       

     

     

     

     

          

     

     

     

     

      

      

              

       

            


Friday, December 25, 2020

STUMPY THE TOAD

 Stumpy the Toad

By 

Charles Mitchell Turner


One


     It was inevitable that Robbie should find such a door. You see, there are certain children behind which looms, in giant letters, the word PROBLEM. In Robbie’s case, it simply was not fair. He was not such a bad boy. Perhaps it was his silence, perhaps the refusal to give in, which made others feel so strongly about him. He was admired or disliked and there was nothing in between, for the lines were all too clearly drawn.

     Even the boy’s mother did not understand her son. She held a vague notion of a “bad seed,” one who by propensity is antisocial. It seemed at last to the ones who had say-so that a school of corrections could be the final answer.

     It was a solution that terrified Robbie.

     His friend, Maxie, had been there. He returned a changed boy. His frequent smiles turned in at the corners, good-natured jibes edged with bitterness, actions furtive, sneaky.

     No, it was a resolution Robbie could not abide.

     As you see, he simply had no choice. 

     When boots scuffled on the porch, the doorbell rang authoritatively, neutral voices carried through the hall to his ears in the bedroom, he looked in his closet and it was there. A low, gaping portal. It beckoned him through.

     He scrambled on all fours into the brightness beyond. 

     It was a deceptive radiance, spelled before a threatening sky. He was on a sandy lane at the outskirts of a village of scattered huts and stucco cottages.

     The hole leading from the house winked like an eye, then vanished.

     His escape was complete, then. He could not be followed. But, escape was not all; he would be freed further. 

     A change began inside his body. It was an adjustment and displacement of everything vital, a process begun within, spreading without, until his smooth body became all puffy, flesh covered with knotted, warty skin, his legs misshapen, elongated. His head too took on added lumps. With the transformation complete, he gazed at himself in a rain pool. The gray phantom of a toad returned the stare.

     “Hi,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m Stumpy.”

     Already, Robbie seemed just a dream.

     Stumpy approached a stoop, an entrance glaring red in color. There seemed a familiar warmth about this cottage. The longer he stared at it the more certain he became that he ought to knock. Here was the home of somebody he knew.

     A familiar voice called out.

     “Stumpy? Why are you late? We don’t want to miss the funeral, do we?”

     It was Potty Lumpnee. She was like an aunt to Stumpy.

     “Oh, no. We can’t miss that.”

     Potty emerged from the house, wearing a black dress so long it hid her red velvet shoes, with dead flowers pinned to the bosom. A tiny parasol tried valiantly to shield her from the elements. Her hippopotamus face had been painted white, with red circle cheeks. Extra thick long lashes curled above innocent blue eyes. She put her arms about Stumpy and hugged him.

     They hurried to catch the end of the procession, which slowly moved from the village to a great rolling meadow, dotted with tombstones of granite and beautiful bouquets throughout.

     The ugly sky darkened as the villagers gathered about a bronze coffin. The speaker stood before the assemblage, intoning, “He is not dead, he is not dead …”

     The mourners filed past the casket, each saying a personal farewell. When Potty stepped up to the box she dropped the dead flowers onto the breast of the young one within. She kissed his cheek. Stumpy could not bear the pain one final look would bring.

     He wandered from the gathering until he entered a deep wood. Hours he spent, observing the forms of life with leaves, stems, and flowers and studying the ones with legs, eyes, hair, and feathers until it became just too overwhelming. The beauty and mystery of it sent him crashing deliriously into a pile of leaves 

.   He lay quietly on the coolness, with sighing trees bent, sky of rolling clouds, until he slept, unaware when the heavens wept.

     Later, Stumpy made his way back to the village.

     Potty was having tea and little cakes when he knocked.

     “Come in, dear.”

     Stuffing the cakes in her mouth two at a time, pieces fell out as she looked around.

     “Stumpy, come in.”

     She gulped half a cup of tea.

     “What a pleasure to see you.”

     “Hi, Potty.”

     “Are you feeling better?”

     “Potty, I don’t know who I am or what I’m supposed to do.”

     Potty freshened her tea, dumping in four spoonfuls of sugar. One nostril had been stuffed with toothpicks and a blue eye threatened to drop out of its hole. She tried to focus the good orb on Stumpy, but he would not quit vibrating. It was Stumpy, wasn’t it?

     “Is that you, Stumpy, dear? Alf was here a while ago, but he has gone off to sea again. He said to tell you he is sorry he missed you.”

     “Gee; cousin Alf. I am sorry I missed him, too.”

     “You are a warty little toad. Do you enjoy being that?”

     He nodded.

     “It suits me, here. The village will accept me this way.”

     “That’s fine, Stumpy, dear; but, who are you?”

     Potty smiled into her tea, in which floated hair clots and a lemon circle.

     “I cannot say. It is as if I am on my way to becoming, but I can’t know to what.”

     “That sounds like time.”

     “Perhaps a great deal of time.”

     Potty felt for more cakes, disappointed to find she had eaten them, every one. She pinched a few crumbs and pushed them into her mouth, her sigh just audible.

     The succeeding days were short, the weather brisk. Stumpy cut firewood for Potty and the neighbors. The pennies he earned were to pay for his new winter coat. He played in the village streets and several vacant fields with the neighborhood kids; Grunt the gopher, Scratch the weasel; Ginger the duck. Exuberant, pleasantly tired, he came in to the evening meal, which Potty always had ready. Feasts, of meat or fish, potatoes, greens, sweets. Everything a hungry youngster could dream of. 

     In the quiet evening hours, he helped her with special projects, such as mixing the colors with which she painted her face, or modeling the dress she sewed for Grunt’s mother. Much of the time was spent reading, or pleasantly talking.

     His contentment kept right on growing. He might easily have forgotten Robbie had the boy been peacefully sleeping. But there came a day when Robbie could be still no longer.

     “Potty, I am off to play. Scratch and Ginger should be waiting for me.”

     “Stumpy, are you truly happy? Would you choose to always live like this?”

     “I love you, Potty. I love everything here. If I had set out to create the perfect world, this would be it and you and I, Scratch, and all the others would be in it together.”

     “Yes. Yes …” Staring into space.

     “Your eyes.” Feeling separation. “Potty -”

     “Are you crying because you love me?”

     “Yes.”

     “Hurry now and meet with Scratch.”

     “’Bye, Potty. See you this evening.”

     “Kiss me good-bye.”

     The trees across the meadow were black. Through tall grass Stumpy raced against the wind, dogging the heels of Scratch the weasel, who knew no trace of fear. They stood on a hill, overlooking the exploded graveyard. The wind was suddenly still. Stumpy felt the chill creeping up his backbone. 

     Long after sunset, he made his way to the little cottage where he had been so happy. Potty Lumpnee did not answer the knock. He held an ear to the door, listening to voices inside. Clearly, someone had taken his place. 

     “Potty -” Stumpy choked.

     He ran.

     Beyond the village lay other lands. 

     He collapsed at the foot of a tree. For a long time, he lay breathing as hard as he could. How he wished Scratch could be here, that dauntless weasel.

     At the wish, a motion caught his eye. A familiar voice spoke.

     “Scratch here.”

     And he was there, with paws on hips, looking as saucy as ever.

     “Come on, Stumpy; we have got to be going.”

     For hours they continued in the direction Stumpy had been running until the path meandered and they were lost.

     “Come, let’s go,” Scratch cried, dashing on.

     “Wait,” Stumpy pleaded.

     Try as he would, he could not catch up. His friend faded over the horizon.

     He despaired. Why go on? He dearly wished to be with Potty, safe, and comforted.

     He saw across a patch of flowers a cottage with Potty on the stoop. He chased the image, pitching at last into a void with neither dark nor light nor color. Perhaps an eternity passed, or just a moment. Sailing or suspended; who could tell? Far off for just a flicker, he saw Scratch with Potty, cavorting in those flowers. Then a sensation of falling. 

     Returned to the coolness of the wood with tears scalding his cheeks, he lay on a soft shoulder of earth. Soon he got on his feet, cried out, resolved. He would forge ahead. Perhaps Scratch would be at the end, perhaps not. He faced that perhaps Scratch was lost to him forever. There would be other friends, new villages. He was strong. He would endure.



  

      

     

   

              

      


THE WOODEN ANGELS

          On this crisp December morning, blue-eyed, freckle-faced Willie MacCorkle went into the woods to search for mistletoe. For a few seasons now he had been gathering as much as he could for his parents to use in their small side business. Each year, he had to wander further to find any of worth. He had learned just this morning from Dad that mistletoe is not a fungus, as he had thought, but just an odd plant, its seeds spread by birds, that has to sink its roots into a tree limb in order to survive. Not that he had much fondness for the stuff. He just enjoyed making his parents happy. He watched his breath turn to steam. He loved being cold in the woods, especially in the merry days that lead up to Christmas. 

          Some of the best clumps he was finding were too dangerously high to be reached, causing him to wander still further. It happened this time that he wandered too far and lost his way. He carried a bag half full of mistletoe when he abruptly ran out of woods. There was a great meadow before him and a barbwire fence running between the two. It seemed to Willie he had gotten as much mistletoe as one could reasonably gather. He only wanted to go home now. Reasoning that the fence ought to lead somewhere - likely a road would appear if he followed it far enough - he worked his way to the meadow side of the wire, where the walking would be much easier. The meadow hosted a herd of about ten cows that grazed in the far distance. If they saw Willie, none paid attention. Once as he went along the way he saw a hare bound across his path, about four fence posts ahead.  

          The woods thinned until there were fewer trees, but now lots of poison ivy and thorny vines filled the gaps. The fenced-in land went on, with the terrain rolling enough that he could not see that far ahead. After twenty minutes his steps took him up a rise that revealed a narrow paved road. He felt pretty certain that the road would intersect Carter Lane, which in turn intersected Grace Avenue, his own street. Willie had never worried that he could stay lost for very long. Aware that dark clouds had been rolling in for a considerable time, his main concern resided in the menace driving those clouds.

          Down the road a short way, he came to a house.

          It was elegant and old, with split rails around the yard. From the back a persistent whacking sound let him know someone was hard at work around there. Willie went to investigate, in the hope he would be invited to shelter from the impending storm. He paused to behold a youth of his own age chopping firewood. 

          The boy, tall and graceful, with muscled arms, a handsome brown, almost black, face, sent the chips of wood flying at each stroke of the ax, working with an intensity that failed to acknowledge the stranger peeping from the corner of his house.

          “Hello. Do you have a phone I can use?” Willie implored.

          The boy let down the ax and for the first time looked directly at this stranger. “Are you walking? Way out here?”

          Willie nodded. He came forward, encouraged that the boy’s demeanor had at this point shifted to a gentle manner. 

          “There is no phone. But you are welcome to stay here until my parents come. At least wait out the bad weather.”

          “I can’t wait. Pop will kill me.”

          “Have you looked at the sky? There might be tornadoes brewing.”

          “It looks bad. But, tornadoes in December?” Willie protested.

          The boy half-smiled. He extended a hand. “My name is Victor. Dad wanted to make it Victory, but Mom said ‘No’ to that. Victor Alexander, in full.”

          Willie shook the hand, repeating his own name as the hands joined. He was grateful Victor did not use the event to prove the strength of his grip. “I guess I should stay here,” he said.

          Victor began loading his arms with firewood. “Get a load and come with me, Willie.”

          Willie clumsily managed the unfamiliar task of filling his arms with uncooperative chunks of firewood. He hurried to catch up with the longer-legged Victor, dropping a few pieces along the way. He just caught the door before it could swing shut and went behind Victor into the great family room. They carefully placed the rough chunks on a rack near the fireplace.

           The family room proved large, but cozy, with beautiful rugs, fat stuffed chairs, filled bookcases, and shelves with lots of keepsakes and knick-knacks on them. For a moment Willie studied the portraits of Victor’s parents, in frames set to stand among a group of figurines. 

          After setting up the fireplace, tireless Victor was not ready to sit.

          “Would you like to see my Christmas project? It‘s the best thing I‘ve ever done.”

          “I certainly would.”

          He ushered Willie into his Dad’s workshop inside the garage.

          The garage was huge for a place just meant to be somewhere to park a few cars. There was lots of room to work on projects in one rear corner. Willie was impressed that Victor had the privilege to use a long workbench and an assortment of floor-mounted tools; band saw, table saw, drill press. Assorted hand tools cluttered the terrain surrounding Victor’s enterprise. Willie could not have prepared himself for what he saw in the middle of the workbench. It was an angel, made to hang on a Christmas tree. As he moved in for a closer inspection, Victor placed his creation in Willie’s hands. “I finished it this morning. I left it there while the paint dried.”

          Willie received the wooden figure as carefully as if it might crumble in a too clumsy grip. It was almost six inches in height, intricately carved, beautifully finished. Willie was struck with admiration for a work the most accomplished artist could not have bettered. The flowing gown, unfolded wings, perfect hands, and bare feet, wise beautiful face, with eyes to tug the heartstrings. “It’s magnificent. I love it. Where did you learn to make these?”

           It was not immodest of Victor to say, “I carved one last year, teaching myself. Dad helped me learn to use his tools. It was good; this one is special if I do say so.”

          “Where is the other? I would like to see it.”

          Before Victor could reply, they heard a rush of wind over the property and almost directly over the house a simultaneous crack of thunder. Through the garage door row of windows, the rain was visible, darkly, for the onset of the storm made it seem like night outside. “This is it,“ Victor said. 

          The boys took shelter in the main hallway, until the driving rain sounded less severe, waiting near a tree that Victor had earlier cut and dragged inside to be stood and decorated. Victor showed Willie that the trunk had already been prepared to fit in the stand, one his family had been using for as long as he could recall. The stand was special because it could hold up a ten-foot tall tree.

          Victor sent Willie back to the family room, then followed, dragging the tree.

          He didn’t need any help to ready his Christmas tree, nor did he ask Willie to lend a hand to stand it. He did ask his visitor to fill a kettle and pour the water into the stand, while he trimmed it. Then, using a step ladder when necessary, he hung red balls, leaving it bare in one area, which he reserved for the angels. A shiny yellow star topped it all. After affixing the angels he draped strands of icicles. It was a simple, beautiful effect. Willie told him how much he loved it. The angels were the undoubted stars that made an otherwise normal Christmas tree the most special one ever in Willie’s estimation.          

          After critically admiring his work for a time, Victor began repeatedly looking at the clock on the wall. “I thought my parents would get here before now,” he fretted. 

          He brightened and asked Willie if he could stand a mug of hot chocolate. Willie happily accepted. It began dawning on him as they neared the kitchen that he was hungry. Chocolate would make the hunger easier to bear.

          “My parents have been at a business convention in Dallas. They should have left there over four hours ago. That’s why I expected them home by now,” Victor explained as he found the ingredients for chocolate and began making milk get hot on the stove.

          He set out just one mug.

          Willie replied that his own parents are both on vacation through Christmas.  

          Victor indicated his friend should seat himself on a silver-colored stool before the bar. Willie slipped onto the stool, putting his elbows on the glossy countertop while letting his shoe heels rest against the rung near the bottom.

          “My Pop works in a machine shop in town,” Willie continued. “Every Christmas, he works with Mom to turn our house into a sort of Christmas Town, with lights and figures everywhere, both inside and out.”

          He watched Victor, who was staring at the floor for a long moment. “Our Christmas is different this year,” Victor said. “Not much preparation being done. But we’re going to be happy.”

          Outside, the rain continued to pound the house. It could be heard battering the roof and walls. 

          “I wouldn’t look for them just yet. It’s too dangerous to drive,” Willie noted.

          “Yeah; they’re going to be very late.”

          “Nobody knows where I am,” Willie said. “They are going to be worried. Dad has a way of getting pretty angry with me when I mess up.”

          “We are going to let them know as soon as my folks come with a phone,” Victor said with a terse smile. “Soon you will be together. I no longer live with my family. Tomorrow will be the first time I have seen them in nearly a year. Which is why this is the most important Christmas ever for me. That is why I had to have everything just perfect for them. Look, I know your mom and dad are worried sick by now, not knowing if something’s happened to you, but, you will have a wonderful Christmas, I promise, and they will too.”

          “I hope you are right. It wasn’t completely my fault I got lost, but Dad will tell me I ought to have used my head to make wiser choices. I am afraid he may be too angry to have a good holiday.”

          “He loves you. If he reacts with anger, it is because he has not learned to reach out with his true feelings. Anger is quick. It allows one to hide, for he may himself be afraid of certain things.”

          “Dad; afraid? I don’t see that.”

          “Remember, grownups are people, nothing more, nothing less. They don’t know how to be perfect. No human’s perfect. They get afraid; they make mistakes. They are a lot like you.”

          “I never thought of it like that.”

          “It may be their job to guide you, but they can’t know every single answer. Above all, they love you, even when they are angry or upset.”

          Victor seemed to sink into private thoughts, the wooden angel being the focus of his gaze. It was something personal that Willie dared not interrupt.

          When Victor broke from his reverie, he gave his guest an apologetic nod. “Would you like to sing?”

          He began “The First Noel,” and Willie joined in.

          After “Jingle Bells” and “Away in a Manger,” the boys were quiet. Willie, being tired and cozily warm, stretched out on the rug before the fireplace. In short order he became fast asleep, oblivious to the sounds of Victor bustling about, adding wood to the fire, cleaning up the day’s mess. Finally, Victor spread a thin cover over Willie and he settled in the great chair.

          Sitting in the dark, he listened to the maple tree rubbing against the side of the house and the incessant pattering rain. Twice Victor got up to look outside, then to stoke the embers and to add a log. Around five, he looked outside again, to see if any rain lingered. This time he saw stars through a patchwork of clouds.  

          By the time Willie sat up yawning, Victor had gone in the kitchen to make his friend some breakfast. He came back, bearing a platter of eggs, sausage, and toast, with butter and jam on the side. Then went back for the hot chocolate. Willie could not believe his good fortune to be so well treated by his host. He set about devouring the meal as he watched Victor put on a jacket. 

          “I want to look for storm damage,” Victor explained.

          Willie, in the act of setting aside the platter, said, “Let me go with you.”

          “Finish eating,” replied Victor. “I can wait for you.”

          Shortly, the boys, searching the trees for broken, dangerous limbs, found a single instance. A heavy limb had struck a fence rail, causing it to break in its center. After cutting away the limb with a bow saw, Victor found it easy to pull the rail ends from their mooring. “We saved an extra rail when Pop built this fence,” he told Willie. “While you pile the tree pieces in one spot, I will get it.”      

          Engrossed in his work, Willie didn’t notice when a stylish, somewhat older car rolled up near the house and stopped. He just happened to turn that way to discover that it had come. 

          “Victor,” he hollered.

          “What?”

          “They’re here.”

          A slender woman, tall and beautiful, emerged from the car on the passenger’s side. A rather stout man with a thick mustache stepped out from the other. Their names were Mel and Helen Alexander. They eyed Willie with curiosity. What business had he on their premises?

          Reading the question in their demeanor, Willie said, “I’m Willie MacCorkle.” 

          At the same moment, Victor came balancing the rail on a shoulder. He dropped it when he saw his Mom and Pop aiming quizzical looks at Willie. “Merry Christmas,” he shouted.

          His Mom and Pop turned to Victor with greatly surprised expressions. Willie guessed that their son had not been expected to be home. “Victor,” his Mom cried. “Victor.”

          Pop stepped around his wife and went to his son. “It’s really you.”

          Victor shared a hug with his Pop, sliding from his grip to hug his Mom. By now there were tears on all of their faces. Willie had moved away to allow the family their moment in privacy.

          Mom held her son at arm’s length, gazing at him in wonder. “But how -?” she said, sounding greatly puzzled. “It has been a year. We thought -”

          Pop said, “I don’t know. But it’s a double miracle.”

          “Wait until you see the Christmas tree,” Victor said. “I cut a really nice one. It has a special decoration on it.”

          “I can’t wait to see it,” said his Mom.

          “We are going to take a look at it right now,” said his Pop.

          Mr. and Mrs. Alexander pushed both boys ahead of them inside the house right into the family room. They marveled and poured love on Victor’s magnificent angel. 

          Then Victor directed his parents’ attention to Willie to tell them they need to call the MacCorkles to come to pick up their son. He explained how Willie came to be here.

          His Mom immediately took the number and made the call. She smiled at Willie. “Your Mom is on her way,” she said in her gentle voice. “With your Dad. She’s very relieved that you are okay.”

          Willie thanked her. He considered waiting outside, to allow the Alexanders some privacy.

          “Oh, no,” said Pop Alexander. “We wouldn’t hear of a guest not feeling welcome. Come sit with us. Would you like a drink or food?”

          Willie said it was fine to simply sit with the family and wait; he needed nothing. 

          “I am afraid we are going to alarm you, Willie,” Mom Alexander said. “You may get afraid listening to our conversation. I feel we owe you an explanation. There is a surprise for Victor, too, a little later.”

          “Yes,” Victor’s Pop said, nodding vigorously. He looked at his wife. “Tell him,” he urged. 

          She looked with her deep brown eyes into Victor‘s eyes. “Do you mind?” she asked.

          Victor stared gravely at his mother and then he looked at Willie. “It’s okay. Willie is my friend.”

          “Well,” began Mom Alexander, “For last Christmas, we found a rascally dog at the shelter, a real heart-stealer. Randy the part Lab and something else that couldn’t be determined. Probably a really mixed breed. He was eight months old. Victor of course immediately loved him. They ran together, wrestled together. There was just one thing. A dog like Randy chews things. One morning Victor came from his room, looking for his playmate. There was Randy, chewing to pieces one of his favorite running shoes.

          “For the first time, Victor scolded the dog for his mischief. He made Randy feel unappreciated. Well, Randy skulked outside through the doggy door. When Victor went to find him to show he loved him still, the dog was nowhere to be found.”

          Willie tried to avoid the tears that sprang to Victor’s eyes. He began to suspect he was not going to like the rest of the story.

          Mom Alexander continued telling the tale. “As Victor walked around looking and calling out, he heard a commotion and knew from the sounds it was a likely dog fight. He came around a stand of scrubby trees and prickly cactus to the sight of Randy being mauled by five big dogs. 

          “My boy picked up a tree branch that had fallen off of an aging tree and charged into the fracas. His branch broke against the shoulder of one dog. The leader of the pack paused to look at Victor. Then he and two others attacked him.”

          Here Helen Alexander’s voice broke. Mel Alexander stepped in. “Victor ought not to be here because of what happened there.”

          Pop Alexander pulled Victor close. He buried his face against his son’s shoulder. His great head turned and he looked at Willie. “Victor was killed. We held his funeral in January. Why you see him here is a miracle I can’t explain.”

          He turned back to Victor. “Son,” he said, “I don’t know how to let you know what the second miracle is. I feel it ought to be me doing the telling.”

          Pop Alexander exchanged looks with Mom Alexander. Her face was solemn. But her eyes were burning like little stars. She gave him the nod to go ahead with telling the tale.

          He began, sounding almost like a lecturing professor. “Last night, coming in on the freeway, it began to storm. The wind blew and the rain hit so hard we could not tell where the road was. It came about so quickly, I tried to pull over on the shoulder. We were slowing and should have been safe. But a big rig came over the rise sliding sideways until it demolished our car. We tumbled down an incline. All at once, we both were hovering, looking down at the scene, watching ourselves being pulled out of the wreckage. After a time, and as the rain ended, we floated to the pavement a little bit down the way. There was the car we drove home, with the engine running and the doors wide. It took us here on its own.”

          Victor’s quick mind likely grasped that wherever his parents were headed in that car, he would be there with them. He threw an arm around Willie’s shoulders and hugged him. “Willie, I’ve got my parents back,” he gushed. 

          Willie did not fully comprehend what was taking place. But he was happy because the Alexander family was happy. He smiled watching their happiness until a knock sounded at the door. “It’s my folks,” he said, running to let them in.

          There on the porch was Wallace MacCorkle with Lillie MacCorkle hovering slightly behind him. Willie’s parents. “My boy.” 

          Pop MacCorkle grinned with the whole of his great ruddy face. He stepped back to allow Mom MacCorkle to precede him into the foyer. 

          Willie tried apologizing for not getting home last night. His Pop shushed him. “I understand you wandered too far. That storm you were caught in was much wilder than the forecast predicted. I am grateful this family gave you shelter. No apology necessary. We are good as far as I am concerned.” 

          His Mom hugged him. “It’s just good to know you are okay,” she murmured.

          “Let’s meet these wonderful people,” Pop MacCorkle said enthusiastically.

          Willie led them into the family room. 

          His parents paused, looking around. “Are they hiding?” Pop said.

          “Wait just a minute,” Willie said, equally mystified.

          He went to the kitchen. Not feeling privileged to search beyond that, he returned to his parents. On a hunch, he asked, “Did you see their car outside?”

          “You know,” Pop replied, “I almost thought I saw a fairly old sedan in the drive when we came in but decided I was mistaken.”

          “I saw it,” Mom said. “Except it was not really there.”

          “I guess they had to go,” Willie speculated. “You would have liked them as much as me. At least you can admire the Christmas tree before we go home.”

          “Yes,” said Mom. 

          They turned their attention to Victor’s tree. 

          “Cute angels,” Pop observed.

          To Willie’s shocked surprise, the wooden ornaments they studied were but two crudely shaped blocks one could make out to resemble angels. 

          Mom asked if they were Victor’s handiwork and Willie said they were. “I don’t understand it, Mom. Until a few minutes ago, these were the most beautiful things you will ever see.”

          He studied the angels a few moments more. “I guess the magic went with them,” he concluded.

          Pop looked upward. “Thank you for taking care of my son,” he said, just in case the Alexander family could hear him.

          And they left the house to drive home.   

                 

 

             

       

       

               

             

         

      

     

      

      

     

     

     

     

     

     

              

          

       

         


Thursday, December 24, 2020

MY GIFT FOR YOU WILL BE

 Each year, I write something for Christmas. Sometimes I like the result, sometimes not. The big problem for me is, all the cliches and nice phrases are overworked by thousands of writers and would-be writers. It's hard to get beyond that and still sound "Christmasy." The following may or may not be subject to revision, pending further review.

"My Gift For You Will Be"
written with Tony Bennet's voice in my ear
My gift to you will be
More than a prize
Underneath a Christmas tree
Wise and wonderful bride
A star will take us
On a magical ride
Soon you will see
The world below us will be
A jewel in the mist
O’er it we pause
Shocking Mister Claus
With a long lover’s kiss
My love for you will be
More than a prize
More than a prize
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Tuesday, December 1, 2020

A TALE OF TWO KITTIES

           From the instant Merton slipped it from behind himself and pushed it into her hands Berta loved the little ball of fur. It snuggled in her hands against her chest emitting little kitten purrs and closed its eyes. Brownie, she named it. From the start, Brownie was adventurous, prowling the house, getting into mischief, climbing everywhere, clawing fabrics, and knocking objects off of shelves. Merton fixed Brownie up with a crawl hole so that he could do his business outside. Having come from a union of Havana Brown and yellow tabby, Brownie grew into a handsome cat, sometimes a house sitter, other times sleeping near the house by the driveway. Merton was fond of Brownie too, with Berta claiming full proprietorship inside the house and he bonding with him when meeting up in the yard. He kept mum on the friendship with Brownie because he did not wish to appear to compete with Berta for his affection.  

          Despite the strictures of a lukewarm marriage, he believed he loved his wife. The marriage of Merton to Berta was a long quiet one. She, the extrovert, had chosen Merton the introvert for his compliancy and willingness to earn as much money as she required to keep a nice house and allow herself to entertain friends and family. She had not expected that Merton would repel the lot of them with his standoffish ways and snobbish book learning. What made it worse for her, the constant badgering of Merton that she administered, exhorting him to be social, had uncovered a stubbornness even he had not known he possessed. Their lives became two separate camps under the one roof. In small domestic ways, such as meals and house cleaning, they were civil, sharing, and working together. Leisure sent them to their own rooms, with Merton reading or watching television mostly, and Berta exercising when not playing games with friends on online media. 

          They both left home to work each weekday. His work took Merton to midtown to serve inside the great bank building that replaced Evanston House nearly twenty years ago, meaning each morning he had to drive out in his grey compact car a few minutes before she took to her maroon SUV. Her job took place inside the supermarket, about ten streets over. When Merton came down the steps, briefcase in hand, on this particularly bright and sunny morning, he little suspected how life was about to change. He was preoccupied with the fact it was nearly the couple’s anniversary. He wanted this year to buy her something nice because their life had been going smoothly of late; he felt she deserved a reward.

          The car kicked to life and he threw it in reverse. He tromped on the pedal and the car swung in an arc, positioning to drive forward to the street. But in the process, he had hit a bump where there ought to be no bump. He put the car into park and climbed out to investigate. The object that caused the bump was a small animal. He recognized Brownie, covered with blood, body crushed, breathing a few final breaths. Grief flooded his senses, while at the same time his practical mind envisioned Berta finding out. He didn’t know whether to hide Brownie from her or bring her from the house to see what he had done. Instead of acting, he remained standing over the body until Berta looked out and asked why he had not yet gone to work. She came on the porch and peered down at the blood-covered brown fur with glazed over eyes and contorted face. She gazed at it in horror. “You killed my Brownie,” she cried in anguish.

          “He was asleep against the passenger wheel,” Merton said lamely.

          He called work to excuse himself for the morning. Work gave him the day. His first impulse was to embrace his wife and try to console her. He instead moved to deal with Brownie’s broken body, certain any attempt to embrace his wife would be rejected. He found a sturdy box that had been designated for trash in the laundry room. Then he selected a gold-colored towel to wrap him in. As the towel was spread beside the corpse, Berta broke down further and lurched back inside the house, bellowing her heartbreak in full-throated sobbing. Merton’s own heart was breaking as he boxed Brownie and took him to the small flower garden to be buried. He selected a soft spot where daisies often were planted in another season and let the box down while he fetched a spade. The hole required more digging than was expected, but Merton persevered until the job was properly done. He eased the box to the hole’s bottom and carefully covered it all over. There were metal fence stakes behind the gardening shed. He selected a clean one to wire a crosspiece to and when it was done pounded it into the earth to mark Brownie’s grave. He cut a square of cedar to attach to the cross, after carefully painting on it, “Lie in Peace, good cat Brownie.”

          Merton entered the house by the back door, bypassing the living room, feeling her presence on the sofa as he went, getting a drink of water in the kitchen. After the digging, he needed a full ten-ounce glass. He gulped a few swallows, but finished it off slowly, wishing he had put in ice. When at last he set the empty glass in the sink, Merton considered approaching his wife. Failing to screw up the courage, he went instead to his room and sank in his soft chair. He would miss Brownie. He regretted what the loss was doing to his Berta. He leaned down to remove his shoes. He had gotten the first one off and was pulling down the sock when a decisive impact from something small and hard smacked against his head. Berta with a belt stood like a comic book character before him.

          He was able to discern through successive indiscriminate flogs by Berta the cloth belt with a hard buckle from one of her favorite ensembles. Her rage played out, with Merton making no effort to defend himself. “You killed my Brownie,” she raged. 

          Not moving, he cried throughout the entire thrashing, accepting the welts as welcome punishment. When her strength and rage could carry no more, Berta lowered her hands, letting the belt drop to the carpeted floor. She sagged before him, spent. Merton stood. He awkwardly put his hand on her shoulder. “I loved him too,” he said. “He was our family.”

          She was still, passively allowing Merton to press himself to her. 

          The warmth of their joined flesh rekindled, a little, feelings he had known in an earlier day, of courtship leading to marriage. They disengaged, she to return to the living room couch and he to reclaim the chair to resume the uncladding of his feet. After, he left the room. Without conscious thought, he wandered in the direction of the living room. He peered in. With no light burning and the curtains pulled to it was dark enough that Berta’s form on the couch was nearly lost in shadow. He approached slowly, allowing Berta the opportunity to send him away. Unable to determine that she was aware of his presence at all, Merton spoke softly. “Want some company?”

          Berta shifted her body and made room for Merton to scoot in and hold her close with her head resting on his chest. She was soft and comfortable against Merton. He realized how deeply he needed such contact in his life. They sat without speaking or moving for a very long time. At last, he said, “I’m going to make us a meal. A salad with everything on it the way you like, including chives. I have a large avocado to eat in chunks. Unless you want guacamole?”

          “Make it to suit yourself. You always do a fine job with the food.”

          “We don’t need avocado, but it’s an addiction with me,” he said. “Stay comfortable here if you like. I can call you when it’s ready.”

          In the kitchen, Merton pulled out nearly every fresh vegetable from the crisper. He started the salad with a bed of iceberg lettuce, torn to small pieces with his fingers. Then he grated carrot, radish, and just a few smidgeons of beet and turnip. He chopped a sweet onion, tomato, celery, and a portion of bell pepper. Then greens, cauliflower, and broccoli. Chives last. He tossed the salad and moved it to the table. Albarino wine. Crackers, vinegar, croutons. Salad dressing. She liked salad dressing. He was setting the dinnerware down when Berta came in and poured the wine. She put napkins beside the plates. 

          As she settled at the table, she said, “I would like some cheese on top of it, please.”

          Merton had purposely forgotten it. He hated cheese. He nevertheless passed her a packet of grated cheese before pulling up his chair and seating himself. Watching his wife fill up her bowl, he sipped on the wine a bit too much and so refilled the glass to the top. Soon he had his own food. They ate in silence until Merton asked if she would like to have a get together on the weekend? An outdoor cookout. 

          Visibly surprised, Berta said she might think about it.

          They concluded the meal, cleaned the kitchen, and went to their respective rooms to spend the evening. Merton wanted her close but had not the imagination what to do about it. So, instead, he would try to occupy his mind with his normal daily routine. Alone in his chair, Merton, trying to read, ended reflecting how it seemed that his vision appeared to be weakening. It was this minute a supreme struggle to read his chosen novel. Discouraged, he set it aside after failing to re-insert the bookmark. The poor man idly clicked on the TV. At least he could make out the images on there well enough. But the fare on the dozens of channels failed to capture his interest. Falling into somewhat of a stupor, he sat until it was Berta’s normal bedtime. After preparing himself for sleeping, he felt dissatisfied to be considering sliding beneath the sheet and falling asleep alone. Berta’s warmth and their newfound closeness drew him to her room.

          Finding his way by the glow of the night light, he chose the side of the bed with the most room. Uttering no words, he lifted the sheet and slid in next to Berta. She turned to face him and they hugged briefly. Merton slept as secure and content as ever in his life. In the morning at six, he was moving around the kitchen, fixing the coffee. His heart was light; his steps were if not spritely less sliding of feet across the floor. He bit into a cinnamon roll, a huge bite, before pouring up the hot liquid and sweetening, slightly, hers. 

          Stepping into her room, coffee held before him on a saucer, he said, “Did you sleep well, my dear?”

          She, sitting in a slip on the mattress edge, looked at him sourly. “I want my Brownie,” she whined.

          He set the steaming cup near enough for her to reach it. “Of course you do,” he soothed. “I would do anything to bring our boy back. I hurt so much for causing the accident -”

          Merton quickly went from the room to fix his breakfast. Two poached eggs. Buttered wholewheat toast. Small spoonful of jelly on one of the toast slices. Two microwave heated sausage patties. More coffee.

          He was seated at the bar, eating in small measured bites when Berta came in to get more coffee. “Good thing it’s our days off,” she muttered. “I don’t think either of us is ready to do our jobs.”

          She put the cup on the counter and carefully poured her coffee. Looking over the counter for the sweetener, she said, “I’m sorry I carped at you. We really should work to get along.”

          He swept up the sweetener packets and handed her one. “I think we are making a start. I’ve enjoyed getting close physically and I think we made a small breakthrough otherwise.”

          Stirring the sweetener into the coffee. “We don’t laugh. We don’t see other people.”

          “Hence me inviting us to have a cookout,” Merton said brightly.

          “I don’t know,” she complained. “You never talk to my friends. They all feel unwelcome. That’s why I quit asking them over.”

          He set his cup down, a little too hard. Having taken the complaint as a challenge, he spoke in a stronger voice than he could normally muster. “Thomas badgers me with his politics. His wife, what’s-’er-name, tells me poetry is for sissies. Then smirks. It’s no different from the others. I’ve tried a few times -”

          “When did you really try?” She rid herself of the coffee, prepared to storm out. “You know books. You don’t know people.”

          Merton could have followed, apologizing, explaining, but that never did work in the past. He had to get out. Let the air clear before engaging her again. “I will be back,” he said.

          He slipped into a light jacket and grabbed his driving glasses before stepping out onto the porch. With one hand in his pocket to grab the keys, he went down the steps.  

          Merton approached the car with the experience of Brownie’s fate still raw in his mind, so he looked behind each tire before climbing behind the wheel. There were now no pets on the premises, but regret prevailed on him to be overly careful. The exit was smooth, with no unexpected bumps. He drove out of the neighborhood with no thought about where he should be heading but brisket entered his mind and he turned in the direction of his favorite supermarket. The street he turned on had recently been a leftover from a rural time, but progress from the city had caught up to it, transforming the length of it into a supposed paradise of retail outlets and restaurants. So many familiar chain stores competed for one’s attention. He noticed a brand new store about a block away from the supermarket. A pet store. He failed to catch the store’s name but was captured by the sign in the big window: RESCUE ANIMALS. 

          To cheer himself up, he went inside to play with a few dogs and cats.

          It was like a supermarket of pets in there. He wandered slowly down lanes of birds, fish, and rodents. In the very back were shelves of feed and remedies, before a complete clinic. In between were dogs and cats. Fifteen dogs of varying backgrounds and sizes, each one an individual with hopeful eyes whenever he approached one. He managed some smiles to mask his sorrow, feeling wet noses, and tongues through the cages. There were dozens of cats. He nearly feared to approach them. 

          But one particularly pugnacious cat drew him to the cage it occupied. On the tab it declared this one to be AMERICAN BOBTAIL. Although still a kitten it showed to be a pretty big breed. Through the cage, they made contact and became friends. Against his will, he became attached enough to enquire of an employee the procedure for adopting Richard, as his name proved to be. The store insisted he buy a carrying cage and advised him to not let Richard out of doors for at least a few weeks. He signed up to employ a store vet before leaving, cat in a cage, a bag of litter under the other arm.

          Richard rode quietly, alert, and absorbing the details of all that transpired. Once inside the house, he waited expectantly, certain he was about to be set free. Merton rested the cage atop the card table. He closed off the hole to the outside. When he eased the cage open Richard walked into his hands. He picked up the big kitty and made sure he was calm and seeming friendly. Then he went slowly to Berta’s room. “Sweetheart,” he said gently. “I’ve brought a friend.”

          Looking to be puzzled at an act so out of character for Merton, she answered, “You did? What kind of friend?

          Instead of speaking he walked to her and pushed Richard into her arms. Richard was amenable and he pushed his head against her cheek before settling to be cuddled. Berta’s face of shocked resentment at Merton for bringing in another pet transformed to joy. “He’s gorgeous,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

          Merton nodded his acceptance and smiled, dreaming of the warm bed they would share tonight. 

    

                

               

                         

                       






             


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INDEX OF STORIES AND VERSES

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