Too Many Cooks

They May Not Mean To, But They Do - Chapter 4

Previously

For once Lindsey didn’t have a quick comeback to Al’s revelation. Perhaps her silence signaled that she was on the cusp of leveling up on the maturity scale in the game of life. Girls that age were said to be more mature than their male counterparts. Rather than spilling out her mouth like water through a sieve, words seemed to be bouncing around her head and then sticking to walls of her skull. She wondered why he suddenly felt the need to tell her or why he didn’t want his aunt to meet her parents. She’d been to his house before and his aunt was cool.

For once it was Lindsey who seemed discomforted by the extended silence and she finally blurted out, “Why don’t you try to find them?”

“It’s getting cold out here, maybe you should just go home,” he countered in an uncharacteristically harsh tone.

“Don’t you try to change the subject and dismiss me.”

He’d already started past her with his clinched hands deep inside his jacket pockets. “I didn’t ask you to come looking for me. I’m going inside now. You can do what you want.”

He couldn’t look around. He was afraid of seeing her standing there in her patented arms folded, hip thrust to the right, wrinkled nose stance that she would adopt when she wanted to express her disapproval of the way he was behaving. He didn’t like the way he was behaving right now either, but he liked the way he felt even less. His stomach was sending signals to his brain that he might not have seen his dinner for the last time.

Luckily his aunt was engrossed with one of her television documentaries when he came back in and she let him off with a quick “I hope you had fun tonight,” never really looking up from her show.

“Yeah, sure. Um … I have a bunch of homework to do.”

He’d gotten almost to the steps when she said, “What I don’t even get to see that face?” He knew she knew something was wrong. She always knew. She hadn’t even blinked the night the policemen dropped him off at her doorstep based solely on a piece of paper in his pocket. She just took him upstairs and tried to get him settled into his new room.

“Will this do?” He poked his head around the corner of the doorway. “I have a big test tomorrow, that’s all.”

He knew it was a less than convincing lie but she let him off easy. “Don’t stay up too late. Otherwise, you’re fall asleep during that test.” She smiled, as if to say, I’m here when you’re ready.

He bolted upstairs two steps at a time and dropped like a rock into the bean bag chair in the corner of his room. He sat with his knees up under his chin, a nearly round object amidst the pliant blob of furniture. Everything about him was still clinched. Why had he told her about his parents? He was such an idiot sometimes. Now she’d probably think he was lamer than ever. And what if she went to school the next day and told everybody.

He couldn’t focus enough to finish his homework, but as long as he finished the math at lunch tomorrow, he could probably blend into the wall enough to get past his morning subjects. He crawled up on the bed in the fetal position and willed himself into a sleeping oblivion.

But sleep would provide no refuge tonight. He was returned to the scene of the crime. From his much shorter, younger vantage point he walked through the dreamscape mall once again with a parent on each side holding his hands. They didn’t quite walk in unison so his little arms were tugged first this way, then that.

French fries. A rare treat awaited him at the table in the food court. His mother put a gentle hand on his knee to stop him from swinging back and forth in the swivel plastic chair. His parents were talking but he couldn’t hear their voices. Lips moved. Mom smiled uncomfortably, dad nodded a lot. 

Suddenly a bully whose image was well burned into Al’s brain from the previous school year appeared and grabbed a handful of fries out of the red and white tablecloth-patterned cardboard basket. He looked down at little Al, licked the fries and stuffed them back into the container, leaving soggy, saltless potato mash. Adding insult he wiped his greasy hand down Al’s shirt before walking away.

Looking to his parents for some help or acknowledgment Al found neither. They simply walked a now real-time sized Al over to the carousel. His dad put him up on the horse in an awkward and lanky-limbed tangle and told him to hold onto the big pole that stuck out of the horse’s neck. His mom rubbed his back and then wrapped both hands over his to make sure he was holding on. She smoothed his hair down, told him to hold on and everything would be OK and then stepped away.

He watched for his parents on the first few spins of the carousel but then they were gone. As he looked around he saw his aunt standing along the inside track of the wheel. Her hair was longer, parted in the middle with a headband with a peace sign on it and she wore a long flowing skirt. If she spun around it would fan out like a wheel inside the wheel. She held a protest sign with hand-painted letters over her head that said “Give Dick A Chance.”

Then the spinning started going faster and faster and Lindsey was on the horse in front of him. She turned around, her hair flowing behind her. She was saying something but he still couldn’t make out the sounds. Her expression at times looked like the bridled horse she rode, her jaws contorted as if she was hollering something to him. But he couldn’t figure it out. And the spinning went faster and Lindsey’s horse seemed to gain ground and speed away from him. Finally, exhausted from his night, he woke up panting and dizzy.

At school Al was hoping to avoid seeing Lindsey outside of class. If he could have avoided it in class too, that would be great. In a few short months he’d gone from being convinced that they would be okay if they stuck together to wanting to be as far away from her as possible. But not really. He stared at the back of her head throughout social studies and quickly ducked his head when she looked around. He still wanted to reach out and touch her hair. If he just held on he’d be okay, right?

On the way out of the classroom for lunch, Lindsey tried to catch up to Al but he sat closer to the door and slipped out before she could reach him. She went on to the lunchroom and half-heartedly nibbled at her food. She still didn’t know what to say but she wasn’t the type to just let things lie for long. And Al was predictable if nothing else. So moments later she was knocking at the closet door.

Rolling her eyes, she let out a huff, “I’m pretty sure you’re in there. Can I come in?”

Al froze, mid-bite into his peanut butter sandwich. He’d learned in past years to leave off the jelly just in case his lunch ended up a casualty of a bully’s fist or got splattered in his backpack. Sandwiches didn’t provide much cushion on those occasions when Al’s back met abruptly with his locker. The peanut butter held up pretty well but the jelly just got messy.

Like a puppy with his peanut buttered tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth he mumbled something that Lindsey took for approval. She opened the door and rather than scolding him from her high horse, she sat down on the floor next to him and let the door swing almost shut. A thin triangle of light interjected itself between the two.

Not sure if it would help, Lindsey managed, “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. I mean you were just a little kid.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Those were the words that came out but all he could focus on was how wonderful her hair smelled and how their feet were almost touching.

“Did you ever ask your aunt about it?”

“I used to but she just tells me how much she loves me and that I’m the best son a woman could ever hope for. She showed me some pictures of my mom and dad and her when they were younger but that’s it.”

After a long pause Lindsey had made a decision. “When I get back from Sugarbush, we’re gonna find ‘em.” Al could almost see the wheels turning in her brain as she went into Nancy Drew mode.

No one else spoke for the rest of the lunch period. They just sat there, cocooned in the closet. Safe. Together. Al could breath again. Sort of. In those few solitary moments Lindsey had both given him back his breath and taken it away.

They May Not Mean To, But They Do - chapter 3

Previously…

“You’ve barely touched your eggplant curry, Al. Is it alright?”

Al wanted to say it looked like baby food. Or worse, like baby poo. But instead he smiled and poked at the heart of the yellow gloop and shoveled a substantial forkful into his mouth, smiling at Mrs. Palace. Gina. He always had to remind himself that Lindsey’s parents were Gina and Rick. He swallowed, hoping he was successful in hiding his disgust, and took a sip of soy milk to make sure he didn’t have any bits of food stuck on his teeth before answering, “It’s great, Gina. I was just enjoying the salad so much, well, um, you know.”

He stole a glance over at Lindsey and saw her making gagging gestures. She clutched her throat and collapsed onto her plate.

“Not a winner, G. Looks like baby shit and doesn’t taste a whole lot better.” Lindsey’s lack of any social filter had come from her father. That and her Cupid’s Bow. He got up and scraped the eggplant into the dog’s bowl.

“You can’t give that to the dog. He’ll get sick.”

“But somehow it’s okay for us. I wonder about you sometimes. I’m not sure if you’re trying to kill us all off so you can follow Phish around or if you just need a new cookbook.” He smiled and winked at Al, making him feel like he was in on the joke. Lindsey’s parents were always good that way, and despite her mother’s cooking, he really liked spending time with them.

Rick leaned over to Gina like he was conspiring to lie to Congress and eyed at Al seriously. “So Al, we were wondering what you were doing over winter break.” Lindsey’s sister, Justine, poked her head up from her phone for the first time since she’d sat down.

Justine didn’t have a name like Al’s real one or Lindsey’s. When they first met, she made a point of telling him, “Fortunately, mom and dad didn’t go on any flights of fancy when they named me.” Which fit her decidedly fancy-free personality quite well, as she never aimed for any intellectual or spiritual heights. She was nice enough, but sort of just there. Which, thinking about it, Al realized also made her name pretty fitting.

“No plans. I was just going to hang out, maybe go bowling or to the arcade.”

“How about joining us on our trip to Sugarbush?”

Al’s aunt had taken him skiing a few times, but that was just screwing around on the close-by ice-and-gravel slopes. He’d never been anywhere with soft powder and groomed trails. He wasn’t very good, but he was able to make it down mostly without falling.

“Oh sure. I’m not allowed to bring Dan but Lindsey can bring her boyfriend. Real fair.” Al froze when he heard the B-word, and then realized not all of him was still. His mouth was opening and closing slowly, like a goldfish, but no sound was coming out. He saw Lindsey bat her eyes like a cartoon cat and felt the blood rush from his brain and straight to his cheeks. Lindsey locked eyes with Al and raised one brow. “What about it, lover?” Then she laughed. She couldn’t keep it up, even though she loved seeing Al squirm.

Gina smirked, less at Lindsey’s relentless teasing of Al and more at her lack of self-awareness.

“Al, we thought you and your aunt could come for Sunday dinner so we can all get to know each other. That is, if you’re interested in joining us on the ski trip.”

Al’s whole body felt like it had fallen asleep. Everything was tingling and a little warm, his face was still burning, and everything sounded a little muffled, like there was a thick fog in the room. He pushed back from the table and lurched awkwardly to his feet, mumbling, “She’s really my great aunt, but doesn’t like people thinking she’s old. I, um, I have to go now.” He bolted the room so fast, he was sure there must have been swirling dust devils in his tracks.

“At least my boyfriend’s not a freak.”

* * *

Al was nothing if not predictable; when he needed time to think he liked small, dark, secluded places. Lindsey, of course, knew all about Al and his tendency to act like an ostrich, so it didn’t take long until Al heard a tap-tap-tap on the aluminum door of the tool shed behind his house. He had folded himself under the bottom shelf, right behind the weed whacker and next to a box of old lawnmower parts. She knocked again, harder, and rattled the thin walls.

“C’mon out, Al. Quit hiding.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Richard Milhous Nixon Patterson! I mean it. Get out here right now.”

Al picked his way out from the shed and slid the door open. It moved in fits and starts, catching on the track where it was dirty or bent, and shuddering free. He climbed out into the cold December chill and saw a deep orange glow in the sky which meant snow was on its way. If they were lucky, maybe there’d be a snow day and he could just stay in bed all day.

Lindsey glared at him as she stood with her arms crossed trying to keep warm. She was wearing just the clothes she’d had on at dinner and Al realized she’d run out after him without even stopping to grab a jacket. He started to unzip his coat to offer her like guys in movies when she blurted out, “My sister was just being a jerk, you know. You’re not my boyfriend. I mean, you’re my boyfriend, but not, you know.”

He didn’t expect it, but that felt like a cold weight dropped into his stomach.

“It’s not that. It’s my aunt. I didn’t want your parents to meet her.”

“But why? She’s cool. They’ll love her.”

Al stared at his feet, two big boats pointed to 10 and three, and then he looked at Lindsey’s feet and noticed how narrow and small and perfectly straight they were. He turned in his legs and pointed his feet forward and it made him stand up straighter. He lifted his head and pulled back his shoulders and looked Lindsey in the eye. He’d never told anyone before, but he’d never had a friend like Lindsey before.

“It’s not my aunt. It’s my parents. I…it’s hard to…”

Lindsey reached out and touched the back of Al’s hand. “What is it?”

“My parents aren’t dead, you know. At least I don’t think they are.”

“But then why…”

“I don’t remember them, really, just flashes of things sometimes. But I remember the last day I ever saw them. They took me with them to the mall. This was when it had just opened and all the stores weren’t even in yet, but it had the carousel in the food court and they took me there to ride it. They put me on the white stallion with the gold and blue bridle and hand-tooled saddle and then…”

Al stood, perfectly still in the light breeze, his breath and Lindsey’s coming out in thick, white puffs. Lindsey waited, giving him time to compose himself.

“That was it. I guess I was on there for a long time, just going around and around. When the mall closed, they stopped the carousel and someone from security called the police to take me home. They’d left a note in my pocket - I didn’t know it was in there - with my name and my aunt’s address. They knew they were leaving me. I just don’t know why. Or why there.”

As Al finished, the first light flakes began swirling around them in the eerie mercury vapor glow.

They May Not Mean To, But They Do — Chapter 1

“I hate Fleetwood Mac.”

It was lunch, first day of eighth grade, and the boy had mustered enough strength to talk to the new girl. He’d fallen in love with her that morning, before he’d even seen her. Mrs. Crosby read her name from the homeroom roster and he knew. The boy had suffered years of torment due to his own name, so it was a relief to find someone burdened even more than himself with the imagination of her parents. Though most of their classmates would have been hard-pressed to name exactly what the inspiration for these names had been, they could still recognize the odd ring of them easily enough. And that was all it ever took in any school in America to arouse abuse.

“Lindsey Buckingham Palace?”

It quivered like a prayer, hit his ears like a balm he hadn’t known was needed. From somewhere within him came a sudden mandate: Speak with her.

There was a ripple of laughter, a couple of unmemorable remarks, a request to tell Princess Di hello next time she came by for the queen. A girl stepped slowly from the corner of the room. Her face didn’t acknowledge the jeers—clearly she was a battle-tested pro. And as she swept by him and moved toward the seat assigned and pointed at by Mrs. Crosby, the boy found it difficult not to reach out to touch her arm, to tell her he knew and that it would be okay. We need to stick together! But he was too weak to say anything. If they stuck together, they’d survive. Power in numbers, like his aunt said when she told her stories about protests and marches.

In actuality, he had no real opinion of Fleetwood Mac, even kind of liked when his aunt put on their records and danced around the living room. There were definitely some songs he disliked, but if Fleetwood Mac came on in the car he wouldn’t ask for the station to be changed. He merely assumed the girl had grown to hate them, having been named after their guitarist and thereby shoehorned into that horrible pun of a name. So he risked it, sat down beside her on the empty lunchroom bench, and waited for a response.

Lindsey took another bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly. After swallowing, she slowly turned her head toward him, looked him square in the eyes. There was a long pause before she spoke, the sort of pause and the sort of slowness he would come to learn were as much a part of her as her name. But it was a slowness that disappeared as soon as she opened her mouth.

“Is that meant to be cute or are you just an asshole?”

The boy imagined each word from her mouth was an arrow, none of them in any way related to Cupid. There had been no preparation for this response in all of his planning. When he’d daydreamed about it in Algebra, she laughed a cute, breathy laugh then spoke in a bemused voice, thanking him, telling him that she hated Fleetwood Mac too, hated her parents as well for having so foolishly named her as they had. At the very least, in more modest imaginings, she blushed, looked down at her food, and mumbled something adorable. But this, this gross deviation from the daydreams, these harsh words shooting at him, this was startling.

“What?” In the time since he sat down, it seemed, he had developed a stutter. It was exhausting just to keep his mouth moving. “No, I’m not. An asshole, I mean. I’m not. I just…” He gave up. His words sank into the milk carton suddenly at his mouth. He broke her stare to study the table’s graffiti.

“You’re the Nixon kid, right?”

He was. He was the Nixon kid. Richard Milhous Nixon Patterson. He answered mostly to Skip, in those few moments he could get people to stop calling him Dick or Tricks or Watergate. The political references mostly came from teachers and other adults. Kids just fixed in on Dick and went from there.

“Yeah. You can call me Skip, though.”

“Skip?” She paused again, this time cocking her head slightly to the left, as though making the shape of his name with her mouth had somehow injured her.  “No, I don’t think I’ll call you Skip. I don’t think I’ll ever call anyone Skip.” She placed her sandwich down on the tray before her; he read Ozzy Rules! from among the table’s decorations. She stared hard into the side of his face for what Skip felt was much, much too long, then continued. “And why in the hell would you think Skip a better name than the one you’ve got? You’re named after one of the greatest criminals in the history of our young country and you’re going to mask that with a name given to idiotic characters on horrible sitcoms starring short Canadian heartthrobs? You’re a fool.”

Skip scanned the surrounding tables for faces staring at him. There were none and he was thankful. Surprised, as well, as he’d assumed, given the feel of her words, that she’d been screaming. This was all very new. He’d been beaten up a number of times since starting school (fourteen was his official count; it went up to twenty-two if he included occasions broken up before punches were thrown but after his face was against the ground and his arm hoisted up his back painfully toward his head or he’d been backed against a corner bank of lockers by his predator(s), but he didn’t count those occasions for many sound and obvious reasons). This feeling, however, this warm horror, this was unusual. There was no threat in her voice, none of that familiar contempt or angry confusion he’d faced nearly every day of his education. But there was nothing inviting in it either. Skip busied his fingers with tracing the carved letters of Duran Duran on the tabletop and busied his mind with plotting an escape. Eventually the bell rang and he was allowed to run away.

Skip fled to the instrument closet by the auditorium, a sanctuary he’d sought as a seventh grader mostly on dodgeball days. He liked that he could pull the door closed and there’d be nothing but quiet, dust, and his own distorted reflection staring dumbly out at him from the bell of a saxophone. He hadn’t anticipated needing the closet that first day of school. He hadn’t anticipated talking to the new girl, either. Yet there he was.

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore - Chapter 6

Previously

In the house next door, Theo put down his night vision binoculars and picked up his cell phone, touching a digit from his speed dial list. His call was answered after only one ring.

“I think we need to move on this situation. I’ve lost contact with Mike.” Theo listened intently to the voice at the other end. “I’m pretty sure she clocked him,” he said, stifling a laugh at the thought of Mike being knocked out by an elderly woman. “She had two visitors today: one was ours and one was a local police officer.” Again, he listened. “Just alert the team. I’ll contact the daughters. That will be the tricky part. It always is.”

Theo flipped the cell phone closed, put it back on his desk, and massaged his forehead with his fingers, trying to rub some ideas into being. This was going to be messy and complicated, but he had handled crazier situations. He was sorry that the end of this job would mean another move for his own family, but that was how life had been during his illustrious career as a caretaker and clean up man for the organization.

It would be less alarming for her daughters if he called them in the morning. It also gave him the easy way out in trying to explain things, and after decades on the job, he preferred the easy way. He unlocked his bottom desk drawer, removed a binder, and flipped it to the page that contained the information he needed. 

*****

The following morning, at Theo’s request, the daughters arrived at their childhood home. He had said it was nothing urgent, but he usually alerted them by phone if Mom had been up to something. He had never before asked for a meeting.

They let themselves in at the back, as usual. The house was quiet and their mother didn’t respond when they called. The younger daughter saw a large envelope on the kitchen table with their names carefully printed on it. “This can’t be good,” was all she said before opening the envelope. She removed a sheaf of legal documents topped by a letter from Theo. The sisters sat down and started to read.

“I know you’re wondering what is going on, why I asked for a meeting, and most importantly, why your mother isn’t here. The explanation follows; please keep an open mind as you read.

My family and I moved here right after your father died. I remember telling you that I relocated here because of my job. That is true. What I didn’t tell you was that my job was to keep an eye on your mother.

Before you were born, your mother held a secretarial job. She thought she was working for the public works system. She was trained and did her job well. What she didn’t realize was that she was actually involved in borderline espionage for our agency. She transferred code from one system to another. It was minor, low clearance work, but it paid well.”

“That’s preposterous!” The younger daughter blurted out. The older daughter giggled.

“Your father also worked for the agency, but in a much deeper capacity. His ‘business trips’ were very lucrative ‘information gathering jaunts,’ and even though he was debriefed thoroughly after every trip, we had a feeling that he may have told your mother about some of his, shall we say, adventures. You girls never knew that he was traveling in other countries, but she did.

When your father died, we planted listening devices in the house as a normal precaution. Things were fine until your mother started to show signs of dementia. We picked up conversations she had, thinking that your father was still here. We heard her discussing details of trips that should not have been in her memory. We realized that this could put her in danger, should anyone, including the two of you, hear them and perhaps mention them in conversation. Governments always walk a fine line where espionage is concerned; our agency cannot afford more negative press right now.

Yesterday, things came to a head. Your mother had a very busy day. She first attempted to knock out one of our agents when the woman came to check on her in the afternoon. It seems your mother brews her own special blend of tea, and it is very potent. She actually succeeded in sedating one of the local police officers a few hours ago. Luckily, the female agent was still here, dining with my family, and we were making a late night of it. She smoothed things over with the officer. He thinks she’s the social worker assigned to your mother’s case. She told him that your mother accidentally put some of her medication into the tea. She has told me before that your mother reminds her of Martha from “Arsenic and Old Lace.” Actually, that story sounded plausible, considering your mother’s current mental state. Another agent was cold cocked by your mother with a tea kettle and she rolled him down the basement steps. He had just found the police officer and was afraid something had happened to your mother. When he went upstairs to check, she was ready for him.

The agency, can’t allow your mother to continue to live in the house and possibly jeopardize some operations that are still in place. We have moved her to a facility where she can be cared for and will be free to say whatever she wants without potentially bringing harm to herself or her country.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! Mom? Dad? Espionage? I think perhaps Theo needs his medication levels checked. I don’t think he can just swoop in and take Mom away without our permission. Where is he, anyway?” The older sister stood up, prepared to go next door and face Theo, but sat down again when her sister motioned to the legal documents under the letter.

“Remember when she first told you about intruders? She was right. We had people who would go in from time to time to check on her, and to make sure the listening devices were still operational. It’s a good thing you two didn’t believe her and start snooping around. We have excellent psychiatric staff on board, and they will work with her and make her transition as smooth as possible. You’ll see that all of the documents are in order and all arrangements have been made. By the time you have gone through them, I’ll be back and will take you to see your mother. If, after seeing her, you are still uncomfortable with the situation, the agency will work with you to make things right.”

Time passed as the daughters scanned the various documents in the packet. Everything seemed to be covered, and every document had signature lines for the two of them. At least events did not seem to be set in stone. Decisions could be made once they saw their mother and spoke with Theo in person. Until then, all they had was a pile of documents and Theo’s strange, unbelievable letter.

“So,” the younger daughter said, “I guess we wait for Theo. Then we’ll go to see our own little Mata Hari.”

“Who would’ve ever thought it?” asked the older daughter. “While we wait, why don’t we have a pot of tea?”

The women looked at the unmarked canisters on the counter.

“Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” said the younger daughter. “I think we should stick to water from the kitchen faucet.”

“Good idea. Let’s go sit on the glider and wait. Once Theo gets here, I’m going to need some caffeine. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.” The older daughter pulled two glasses out of a cabinet, filled them from the faucet, and gave one to her sister as they left the kitchen.

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore - Chapter 5

I woke from a little nappy at the kitchen table and saw I’d poured myself two cups of tea. I must have been awfully tired not to realize I’d already set one out for myself. No matter. I just put those two little cups on the sideboard so I could clean them in the morning. Time for bedily-by.

I walked to the front of the house to check the latch and bell on the door. I took a glance through the peephole and saw a patrol car parked out front. That’s odd. I wonder if the neighbor has gotten into some hot water. His daughter is very sweet and tinkles the piano well for her age, but the father does seem to have visitors at all hours. I pushed aside the curtain on the side window and saw another car parked on the street and shook my head thinking what trouble that nice man could have gotten into. “I’ll bet he has gotten into something nefarious,” I said to no one in particular. “Nefarious, nefurious, and furry us!” I giggled at my little poem and put the curtain back in its place.

I saw a bit of cobweb on my husband’s old cardigan and decided it must be time to wash it again so I walked back to toward the laundry room.

I opened the linen closet to make sure all the pipes were in place. I touched them in order from tallest to smallest and decided tomorrow I’d put them to their intended use. Perhaps I’d even invite the neighbor girl over for a little duet of organ and piano.

I glanced down and saw a fresh scuff mark on the wall. It looked like the intruders dragged something big along the floor and it bumped the wall. I bent down and spit on my thumb and tried to rub the scuff mark away. I’m going to catch those naughty intruders one of these days, and then I might just make them paint all these marks they have left on my nice clean white walls. But for now, I managed to clean a little of the scuff off with my thumb. That will just have to do.

As I got back up, I felt a little nip in the air. Fortunately I have the sweater my husband used to wear around the house to keep me warm. Thinking a nice cup of tea might take the rest of the chill off, I went to the kitchen to put a kettle on to boil.

I had just filled the kettle when I heard one of the bells ringing. I got gooseflesh from the sound but knew I needed to be brave. I would finally prove to my daughters that the intruders were real and then they wouldn’t send me back to The Place.

I held the kettle high above my head and slinked into the hallway. The ringing of the bell was louder. I saw the handle to the cellar door shaking. I took a deep breath and stood next to the door. Suddenly, it flew open and a man came tumbling into the hallway! I swung the teakettle as hard as I could and hit him on the head. He crumpled to the floor and I quickly dragged him back to the top of the cellar stairs and rolled him down into the dark.

I latched the cellar door and went to make myself a cup of tea.

We’re Not In Kansas Anymore - Chapter 4

Previously

I pressed my ear up to the door and listened as hard as I could. There was nothing to be heard. I peered through the window. There was nothing to be seen. Getting locked out of my own home twice in a week was not good. I hoped that my daughters would not find out. They would not care or even believe that this time it was not my fault. This was rather bothersome.

I was feeling somewhat shaken as I sat back down on the glider. It was a little cooler this evening so I wrapped my husband’s cardigan tightly around me. I liked watching the stars come out as the day disappeared. I sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star to myself. It helped me to feel calm. My mother used to sing it to me when I was a little girl. My Father made me go into the cellar if he thought I’d been naughty. I didn’t like it there. Mother sang to help me feel better. That was such a long time ago.

Eventually my nerves settled down so I made myself comfortable on the glider. It was a bit too early to go to sleep so I passed the time by creating my own constellations with the stars. That group looked like a little sailing boat. The ones over there reminded me of a castle. My favourites were the ones that looked like a puppy chasing its tail. I couldn’t help but giggle.

I must have drifted off to sleep as the next thing I knew a light was shining in my face. “Ma’am? Are you alright?” I held my hand up to my eyes. A young police officer was pointing his torch at me. He looked very handsome in his crisp uniform.

“I’m fine, officer,” I replied as I pushed myself into a sitting position. “What brings you here?” Although still feeling a little drowsy I remembered to smile.

“One of your neighbours reported that your lights were still on. They thought that was a bit odd as it’s the middle of the night so called to let us know of their concern. I was in the area so thought I’d check in on you.”

“Oh dear me! What a bother I am. I locked myself out of my house earlier. I didn’t mean to put anyone out.”

“It’s no bother, ma’am. Now let’s see if I can help you get back into your home.” He walked to the back door and turned the handle. The door swung open. “It appears to be unlocked, ma’am.”

The intruders were clearly trying to make me look foolish. I would not let them get the better of me. I kept the smile on my face. “I’m so sorry officer, wasting your time like this. You must think me a frightfully silly old thing!”

“Not at all, ma’am. My shift’s just finishing and I’m glad to be able to help. Now, let’s get you inside.” He helped me up and gently assisted me into the house. Such a kind young man.

“I think I need a cup of tea to warm my bones. Would you care for a cup, officer? I would feel better if I had someone to sit with me for a little while.”

I noticed that he glanced at his watch. Then he nodded. “That would be much appreciated, ma’am.”

“Thank you officer. You have been most kind. I shall use my good cups.” I readied two tea pots. I put ordinary tea in the one for me. “I make my own special blend,” I told him as I prepared the other pot. “I do hope you like it.”

We’re Not In Kansas Anymore - Chapter 3

I was not expecting the knock on my door, but I can’t say I was surprised, either. I scuffed from the kitchen where my tea was brewing to the front door, and I spied with my little eye a nice yet official-looking lady in a monochrome suit. A suited woman at your door in a long strand of faux-pearls during broad daylight is never a good sign.

I did not want to open the door. I was in my housecoat and sometimes-sly slippers, but I knew this lovely woman was probably here for some official purpose that could result in my going back to The Place if I didn’t answer the door as she would expect.

Opening the door with my best phony smile, I said hello. I tried to say hello. My voice cracked because I had not spoken yet today, so I sounded more like a strangling bullfrog. It was an interesting sound, and I may have thought about it a beat too long as Lovely Lady stared at me enquiringly.

“Hello there! How may I help you?” Oh, the cheer in my bullfroggy voice. No one could deny I was alert and perky.

“Are you alright?” asked Lovely Lady. “Of course! I merely had a little froggy in my throat. May I help you?” Remain pleasant, I told myself. Keep the smile. Remain pleasant remainpleasant.

“I’m Viola, from the township social services department. May I come in?”

“Why certainly!” I replied perkily. “I was just making my morning tea, would you like a cup? Please excuse the clutter. I’ve not started my cleaning yet.” I was starting to feel the familiar cheek-ache of a forced smile. I led Lovely Lady Viola to the kitchen, where my tea sat waiting, and far too strong.

I washed up and took my worn clothes to the laundry room. Finally, enough for a load! I started the washing machine with glee. I love the sound of the water shooting into the tub. It is such a refreshing sound, like standing next to a waterfall. I pulled up a kitchen chair to listen while I looked out the big windows into the sunshine.

The knock of a small hand increasing in intensity snapped me out of my eye resting. It is a good thing my kitchen chairs have arms on them, or I might have fallen to the floor as I was lulled by the washer waterfall. I opened the door to little neighbor girl. She wanted to play the piano yet again. I did not mind. She plays fairly well, and I quite enjoy watching her chubby fingers on the keys.

After about half an hour I was scooting her out the door. “Your father will not be happy with me if you are late for dinner, dear.” It was pretty early for dinner, but I had tired of the plinking and was ready for her to go.

“Whose car is that?” she asked on her way out the door. “Why I don’t know, dear. I thought someone was visiting your house. Now scoot on home and tell your father I said hello!” Before she could ask any more questions, I shut the door tight and locked it. Two visitors in one day were enough for me lately.

I walked toward the kitchen, thinking that even though I wasn’t very hungry maybe I should eat a piece of bread or something to keep from getting in that not-eating trouble again. I peeped into the linen closet at the pipes, so orderly and covered with just the finest layer of dust. The dust adds character, I have to admit. I bypassed the kitchen and went to the glider. It was such a lovely afternoon, why waste it eating bread?

I heard the bell. It jangled insistently as dusk came on. I started and leapt out of the glider as gracefully as a lame elephant and headed toward the door. I was going to catch that invader once and for all. I saw the kitchen light flip on and just as I neared the doorjamb, the door slammed in my face. I had gooseflesh and my hair stood on end, but I tried the handle. I was locked out again. This was not going to be good.

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore - Chapter 2

Previously

I woke this morning without a wrinkle in the sheets, knowing that the day was starting as it should and I smiled. My feet missed the slippers by the side of the bed and my toes were tickled by the coolness of the floor. They really should stay put, but slippers have a sly side at times. I was in no rush this morning so I just pulled on my husband’s old navy blue cardigan. As I walked down the hallway I stopped at the linen closet, peeked in and smiled again. I ran my hands lightly over the collection of long pipes and shorter pipes. Soon it would be time to put the organ back together. I long for the day when things are back the way they should be. But first I needed to make some breakfast. It is still the most important meal of the day.

Waiting for the toast to pop up I noticed an itch around my shoulders that made me squirm beneath the knitted sweater. I remained focused on the toaster since it had been known to burn things at times. And there’s just no fixing burnt toast. But the itching continued to nag at me. I thought that it must be time for this sweater to have a bath. I would put it in the hamper once the morning chill had lifted.

Shortly after breakfast, Charlie arrived. I had been letting the dear boy deliver my groceries for almost a year now. He needed the money. He was working to save up enough to go to one of those technical schools to learn to be a mechanic after he finished high school. I like Charlie. He’s a sweet boy. His hair gets a little too long at times and he has to brush it out of his face to look me in the eyes. It would help if he held his head up more too. But he’s a sweet boy and he’s going to be a good mechanic.

Charlie always comes in the front door of the house, as do all of my invited guests. He keeps asking me if I wouldn’t rather he come around to the back door. From there he could just walk through the long laundry room that stretches across the back of the house. That’s my room though, with the washer and dryer and big picture windows whose sills are full of small potted plants. It leads right into the kitchen and so I suppose I see his point but it’s just not right. Guests enter from the front and so that’s how we proceed with the weekly deliveries. Only this week things didn’t go as smoothly as usual.

I was leading the way back to the kitchen when I heard that dreaded bell ringing. Spinning around I saw Charlie stooped down, the two big brown paper bags crunched into his left arm and half-balanced on his knee as he was picking something up. His face turned bright red and he started sputtering out apologies and assurances that it was an accident and that he hadn’t scratched the door or anything. He grabbed at the bell to steady and silent it. I could feel my heart pounding nearly out of my chest and I tried my best to control my breathing. Maybe Charlie had grazed the bell. His view was partially obstructed by the groceries.

We continued into the kitchen and the very shaken boy managed to get the bags onto the kitchen table without further incident. He then reached over and placed two pills on the table in front of me. “I found these on the floor,” he managed to blurt out. His breathing now almost matching mine. “Well, I have to go. I’m really sorry about before.” I was stunned and didn’t even respond as Charlie scurried back through the house and out the door. I don’t think I blinked until after I heard the front door latch slip into place with a secure metal clink. “Pills don’t belong there,” I explained to the ether as I picked them up.

A smile started to slip back onto my face as I entered the laundry room. Dozens of pots of rosemary lined the windowsill farthest from the doorway. I rubbed one of the branches between my fingers and then inhaled the scent. My breathing slowed as I took the pocketed pills from the cardigan cave they were tucked into. I lovingly pressed one pill into the soil of the third pot in the lineup and another in the fourth. “That’s where pills belong,” I said as I inhaled the aroma of my fingers, now a mix of herb and dirt. Looking out of the window at the bluing sky with scattered fluffy clouds I shrugged out of the sweater and tossed it into the washer. “When there’s enough for a load, we’ll start that up.”

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore - Chapter 1

            I do not recall when I first noticed the changes. All I know is one day, I realized that every time I walked into the kitchen, the refrigerator started running. It did not matter if it was morning, afternoon, or evening. If I entered the kitchen, the humming sound kicked in, almost as if to acknowledge my presence.

            There were the bathroom lights, too. This was subtler, but it most definitely happened. If I undressed, the lights became brighter. It was as if the lights were giggling at the sight of my sagging, wrinkled skin. I giggled, too.

            I did not tell anyone, especially my daughters. They always wore a worried expression around me, even though they smiled. I made the mistake of telling them about the intruders. See, someone came into the house and made marks on the wall in the hall above the baseboard. I pointed these out to my daughters, and they said that the marks had been there for years. They said the marks were from furniture or the vacuum banging into the wall. They may believe that, but I know better. I checked the lock on the door to the basement and I hung a bell on the doorknob to alert me to any intruders that might try to enter that way.

            I did not tell anyone about the telephone calls that happened sometimes at night. The phone would ring, I would answer, and no one would speak. I just stopped answering the phone after sunset. One of my daughters asked why I would not answer when she called at night. I told her I was tired, went to bed early, and did not want to talk. She stopped calling at night.

            The reason I did not tell anyone is because of The Place. I do not know the name of it, so I just call it The Place. Last year, one of my daughters took me to The Place and I had to stay there for a week. She said that I was making myself sick. She didn’t understand that I was not hungry and did not feel like sleeping. There is nothing wrong with that. Maybe I forgot to change clothes or shower; I do not remember. The Place was nice, but I wanted to be in my home. The doctors at The Place took blood and gave me medicine. I followed their directions, because I am not stupid. I knew that if I wanted to go home, I had to be a good patient.

            When they let me go home, I took the medicine until it made me feel weird. Then I stopped taking it. Sometimes, I would remember to throw out the pills so my daughters would think I took it when they came to visit and started looking in my cabinets.

            The problem now is that three days ago, I went out onto the back porch and closed the door behind me. When I tried to go back inside, I could not because the door was locked. I did not want to bother anyone, so I just sat on the glider and looked around. The back porch was glassed in. When night came, it was still warm and the glider was comfortable. I had on the sweater my husband wore around the house when he was alive and it kept me comfortable. I was hungry, but I stretched out on the glider cushion and sang until I forgot about my stomach. Eventually, I fell asleep.

            The next morning, the little girl from next door came over to play my piano, and she was not happy when I told her that we could not go inside to play because the door was locked. She went home. She told her father, and he came over with her. He was able to open my kitchen door and I thanked him for helping me.

            I am afraid he will tell my daughters and they will want me to go back to The Place. I will tell them that people get locked out of houses and cars all of the time and they will say that when that happens, people normally go and get help. They do not understand that I do not like to bother anyone. People are busy and I do not like to ask for help. It all worked out and I am fine. It was an adventure.

            It is time to get ready for bed. I wear a pair of my husband’s pajamas; they make me feel as if he is still here. I check the bell on the basement door, and then I check the shelves in the linen closet. The empty paper towel rolls and toilet paper rolls are lined neatly on the shelves. There is order in my world. The intruders will not come tonight.

Paul’s Wounds — Chapter 5

Previously

“We need to stop this,” she said, her head not moving on his naked chest. Her left index finger twirled around his belly button, drawing aimless patterns in his drying sweat. “Danny will kill both of us if he finds out.”

“Danny Vitelli doesn’t scare me,” Paul replied through a yawn.

At that, she rolled her head around to stare up at him. “Then you’re the stupidest man I’ve ever met. Seriously Paul, you don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“Some ratfuck-crazy Joe Pesci wannabe doesn’t concern me,” he replied.

“That’s just it,” Allison replied. “He’s not crazy. He’s the smartest, craftiest, most cold-blooded son of a bitch you’re ever going to meet in your life. Paul, there’s a reason that man runs the Famiglia, and it’s the same reason nobody’s tried to challenge his leadership for ten years. He’s a criminal, but he’s a brilliant one. I’ve seen him play chess with grandmasters and beat them. He’s always thinking ten moves ahead, and then thinking ahead twenty more just to be safe. He’s not crazy, he’s no pushover, and if he even thought you and I were sleeping together we’d be fish food. Not because he was crazy with jealousy, but to reinforce a lesson he’s always trying to teach: You don’t fuck with Danny Vitelli.”

“Things never change,” Paul said, and reached over to the endtable for his pack of cigarettes. “The guy before him used to do exactly the same thing. That guy didn’t scare me either.”

Allison shook her head. “You are the stupidest man I’ve ever met. and I must be the stupidest woman for falling for you.”

He dropped the cigarette pack unopened. “Shut up and kiss me.”

She did.

***

She stood up and looked down. The fish was dead. She wasn’t sure if that was an omen or a coincidence. Then she decided it didn’t matter, and flushed the toilet. She watched it spin around in the bowl and then disappear. Then she washed her hands and started thinking desperately about how the hell she was going to get out of here, and whether Danny would let her.

Her hand reached back and brushed strands of blonde hair out of her face as she quietly turned the doorknob. Maybe she could—

“Babe? Willya come in here for a minute please? I need to ask you something.”

Fuck.

“Be right there,” she said.

Allison tucked her blouse into her pants, took a deep breath, and walked towards the blank white door to Danny’s office.

***

“I have a job for you,” Danny said to him.

“Not interested,” Paul replied. “I’m out. I’m staying out.”

“If you wanted to stay out, you shouldn’t have put your dick in my girlfriend,” Danny said, his face betraying not a whit of emotion.

Vitelli was medium height, broad in the chest, light skinned for a Sicilian. His features were unprepossessing, and he didn’t dress to the nines like other dons and capos. His theory was that this was how you called attention to yourself, and the more visible you made yourself, the more likely you were to attract the notice of people you maybe should be studiously avoiding. He ran the Famiglia on the same assumption, and it had worked very well for him so far. The worst thing the cops had done to him in ten years was give him a parking ticket for leaving the Beemer too close to a hydrant. It had all added up to giving him a rep as being untouchable—so when someone got inside and fucked him over, even in a small way, Vitelli made sure that individual was taught a lesson.

Paul D’Amato lowered his head. At least he knew better than to deny it. “Who told you?”

“What would you do to him if I gave you his name?”

“Nothing. I just want to know.”

“Then I won’t tell you,” Vitelli replied. “If you said you were gonna rip his balls off and feed them to him for squealing, I might’ve. But since all you want to do is satisfy your morbid curiosity, fuck you. You don’t need to know. Now, about the job—”

“I don’t want it,” Paul repeated. “I’ll leave her alone and get out of town. You won’t see me again, and neither will Allison.”

He started to get up—then froze as he saw Vitelli reach into his coat and draw out a nine.

“Not that easy, Paulie,” Danny told him. “Sit down.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. Paul slumped back into the chair across the desk from him.

Vitelli almost smiled, but his eyes held no mirth. “Good. Now I’m gonna tell you some of the facts of life—at least as I see them. You may or may not know it, but I pride myself on being the one man in this city nobody dares screw around with. It’s good for my reputation. It gets me a lot of business. And then you … you come in here with your used-to-be-streetwise ass, and you have the nerve to fuck my girlfriend? And to be seen with her in public? What do you think that does for my reputation? I’ll tell you, pally: Not … fucking … much. ‘Look, Danny’s woman is steppin’ out on him. He must be losing control or something. Maybe he can’t handle the life anymore. Maybe he needs to retire.’ And then the next thing you know, some up-and-coming goombah with an ego and a collection of Al Pacino DVDs tries to pop a cap in my ass because he thinks he sees a weak point. And I am not about to let that happen. I worked too hard for this to let some punk-ass Romeo come in and fuck it all up for me.

“So this is what we’re gonna do: We’re gonna make it look like you were using her to get to me. To get yourself a place in the Famiglia. It’s been done before. You work for me, neither of you has to worry about consequences. And this way you get to keep your wandering dick attached to the rest of you, while I get to save face … and I don’t have to worry about how I’m gonna clean your blood off my floor.”

Paul didn’t speak. He was afraid to. He was also afraid not to.  He let the fears wrestle each other for a minute while he wondered what the fuck he could do.

Danny smiled, and the smile was cold, cold. “I would take this deal, Paulie. The alternative is not worth considering. Besides, I just had this carpet put in here. I’d like to keep it a while. What do you say?”

Paul looked down. “All right. All right, goddammit. You win.”

“I know,” Danny said. “I knew it before you walked in the door.”

He slid a folded piece of paper across the desk. “Go to this address and wait for the boys. I have a problem with Mr Không not paying his debts. And he is about to learn the error of his ways. You are the bag man. Bring me back the money Mr. Không owes me. Do this, and we’re even.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t give a shit. You thought you could fuck me over, and you got proved wrong. I decided you were a cowardly piece of shit who would take the easy way out … and I was proved right. So ask me why I should care what the fuck you believe, Paulie.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Paul took the paper and left.

***

It was a set-up, Paul realized now. Of course it was. He’d been late, and the “boys” had been in full swing by the time he got there, beating the Vietnamese shopkeeper senseless until he got in the door. And then Amos had seen him, and said his name … and one of the other boys had leveled the twelve at him and blown him to hell.

And then Không’s wife had started to scream, and a siren began to howl, and the boys realized they had overstayed their welcome. And then the world had gone out from under him. and Amos had bailed on him, like always.

Ya can’t just go pissing him off, Paul.

You thought you could fuck me over, and you got proved wrong.

You don’t know what he’s capable of.

Now he knew. And now he was stuck in a sickbed run through with tubes, wondering when the button man was going to come for him. At least Allison had gotten away in time. He hoped.