Oct 252021
 

I receive requests for this original short story every year at this time. I happily comply.

The all-purpose table had been cleared of dinner dishes and now held four pumpkins, two knives, six magic markers, and several squat orange candles. Claire had switched off the harsh overhead fluorescent and dragged two lamps in from the living room, hoping to create the right atmosphere.

“Mom, Becca’s doing it wrong.” Sadie’s whiny voice cut through the stuffy kitchen air like a dentist’s drill. She glared at her older sister.

“Shut up, brat. I’m making art.” Becca had carved out a single baleful orb and was assessing her work. Her own eyes, heavily lined and shadowed, cut to her mother.

“What? All the 7th grade girls are doing it.”

Guilt is surely a child’s most potent weapon, thought Claire, rubbing a spot between her eyebrows. She exhaled slowly, maneuvered the knife away from her youngest son’s exploratory little hands and forced a smile.

“Let Becca do her thing, Sadie. How’s your pumpkin coming along?”

“Wanna cut, Momma.” Robby was leaning out of his high chair, reaching for the knife. Claire slapped a marker and a smaller pumpkin in front of him.

“Draw a face.”

“It’s not right, Becca,” Sadie persisted.

“I’ll do this dumb pumpkin any way I want, cretin.” Becca waved her hand in dismissal. “I can’t help it if you lack imagination.”

“Mom!”

“Girls . . .”

“Becca’s not doing it the way Daddy showed us!”

“Duh, he’s gone, idiot!”

“You’re the idiot!”

Robby, alert to any discord between his two sisters, chimed in with a plaintive wail. “I wanna Dadda punkin! Want Dadda punkin now!”

“QUIET!” Claire pounded the table, sending knives and markers flying. The children froze, stunned into silence by her outburst and by the single tear that hung precariously from the corner of her eye. She regarded them bleakly: restless older daughter, resentful middle child, and a small boy suddenly marooned among so many injured women.

“Here’s how we’ll do it,” she said firmly. Picking up a knife, she made a series of shallow cuts on the remaining pumpkin to indicate a face. She worked quickly, her labors informed by years of medical training and months of suppressed grief. Within a few minutes, she had the outlines of an expressive-looking face whose sad eyes belied its wide smile. She stood back, feeling oddly satisfied. Robby clapped his hands.

“Good punkin.”

They laughed.

“I like your pumpkin idea, Mom,” Becca ventured.

“Me, too,” her sister added.

Our pumpkin,” Claire told them. “We’re in this together.”

all-purpose table had been cleared of dinner dishes and now held four pumpkins, two knives, six magic markers, and several squat orange candles. Claire had switched off the harsh overhead fluorescent and dragged two lamps in from the living room, hoping to create the right atmosphere.

“Mom, Becca’s doing it wrong.” Sadie’s whiny voice cut through the stuffy kitchen air like a dentist’s drill. She glared at her older sister.

“Shut up, brat. I’m making art.” Becca had carved out a single baleful orb and was assessing her work. Her own eyes, heavily lined and shadowed, cut to her mother.

“What? All the 7th grade girls are doing it.”

Guilt is surely a child’s most potent weapon, thought Claire, rubbing a spot between her eyebrows. She exhaled slowly, maneuvered the knife away from her youngest son’s exploratory little hands and forced a smile.

“Let Becca do her thing, Sadie. How’s your pumpkin coming along?”

“Wanna cut, Momma.” Robby was leaning out of his high chair, reaching for the knife. Claire slapped a marker and a smaller pumpkin in front of him.

“Draw a face.”

“It’s not right, Becca,” Sadie persisted.

“I’ll do this dumb pumpkin any way I want, cretin.” Becca waved her hand in dismissal. “I can’t help it if you lack imagination.”

“Mom!”

“Girls . . .”

“Becca’s not doing it the way Daddy showed us!”

“Duh, he’s gone, idiot!”

“You’re the idiot!”

Robby, alert to any discord between his two sisters, chimed in with a plaintive wail. “I wanna Dadda punkin! Want Dadda punkin now!”

“QUIET!” Claire pounded the table, sending knives and markers flying. The children froze, stunned into silence by her outburst and by the single tear that hung precariously from the corner of her eye. She regarded them bleakly: restless older daughter, resentful middle child, and a small boy suddenly marooned among so many injured women.

“Here’s how we’ll do it,” she said firmly. Picking up a knife, she made a series of shallow cuts on the remaining pumpkin to indicate a face. She worked quickly, her labors informed by years of medical training and months of suppressed grief. Within a few minutes, she had the outlines of an expressive-looking face whose sad eyes belied its wide smile. She stood back, feeling oddly satisfied. Robby clapped his hands.

“Good punkin.”

They laughed.

“I like your pumpkin idea, Mom,” Becca ventured.

“Me, too,” her sister added.

Our pumpkin,” Claire told them. “We’re in this together.”

Aug 282019
 

Part 1: THE VISITOR

“Where can I find the Italian?”

The old man might have been asleep. His beat-up and mud-stained cowboy hat was pulled so low his face sat mostly in shadow. Maybe he’d been watching my approach. I didn’t know, didn’t care. I’d been driving for hours. I was hot, tired, and irritated. And maybe a little nervous.

He lifted his legs off the blistered railing to bring his chair down with a thwack that sent tumbleweeds scattering. The wind whistled through the cracked pane in the old building behind him. Despite the suffocating heat, I shivered. I wanted to hightail it out of there. I stood firm, though.

Clearing my throat, I spoke again, steel reinforcing my every word. “I asked you if you’d seen the Italian. He’s got a package for me.”

The old man leaned forward a couple of inches. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could tell he was sizing me up.

“I’m here for my wife,” I continued, my voice like steel. “She met the Italian last year. They made a deal.”

He tilted his head back. Now I could see his eyes: slits the hard gray of granite set into a lean, weathered face above a hawk-like nose and grizzled chin. They took my measure. In a voice like dry dust, he spoke. “I remember your wife.”

Those four words froze my blood. He’d met her, obviously, and she’d made an impression. How did he remember her? As a formidable opponent? A no-nonsense negotiator? Her beauty would have been obvious, along with her keen intelligence. I knew her mettle, adored her resolve, counted myself lucky every day of my life that she’d come into mine. She’d gotten past the old man; that much I knew. She’d actually reached the Italian. No small achievement. That must have rankled the cowboy/sentry in front of me.

Too sick to travel this time, she’d tasked me with locating the Italian and bringing back what was hers, no, what was ours. We were in this together. The taciturn old man with the hooded gaze wouldn’t know the specifics of their arrangement, would he? No matter. His goal was to thwart me. Mine was to retrieve the package and return home to my beloved. I had to do this, no matter the danger or the discomfort.

Fear tightened my parched throat. I took a breath, blew it out with as much force as I could muster. “The Italian,” I growled. “He was supposed to leave us a package. He got his money. I’m not leaving until I get it.” I spread my legs apart and folded my arms to show I meant business.

The old man’s lips parted, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. He hauled himself out of the chair and drew himself up to his full height, well past six feet. Standing above me on the porch, he reminded me of a tree, unyielding and unbending.

“How ‘bout you describe this package?” The old man spoke quietly, weight in every word.

I held out my hands to indicate an oblong shape maybe twelve inches long, curling them slightly to represent a cylinder.

He chuckled, a harsh unforgiving sound. “Big as a breadbox, eh? You must want it bad to come here on your own.”

I ignored his veiled threat, kept my voice steady. “I’m more than capable of handling this on my own.” I gave him my best snake eye. “Deal’s a deal. I paid for it and I want it now.”

We faced each other for what might have been a minute, neither of us giving ground until he finally looked away. He offered a grimace, walked down the stairs, and clamped a hand on my shoulder. He indicated the house and I followed, determined to finish the job.

In the end, I walked out of there with my head held high and the package tucked under my arm. That’s what counts.

 

PART TWO: The Old Man

“Where can I find the Italian?”

(courtesy, the Everett Collection)

The man didn’t startle me, mainly because he’d announced his arrival long before he posed his

question. He’d shown up in a white Ford Fusion with a bad muffler and a couple of sad little dings—a rental, judging by the plates. He’d heaved himself out of that sorry vehicle with a grunt, as if the effort of standing were too much for him. Now he stood below me, peering from under the brim of his ridiculous white cowboy hat. I lifted my legs off the railing, setting down the chair with a thwack that sent tumbleweeds scattering.

“I asked you if you’d seen the Italian,” he repeated, his voice breaking.

I leaned forward, taking in his starched chambray shirt, pressed new jeans, pointy new boots, and oversized belt buckle. He looked worse than a caricature of a cowboy; he looked like a fool. Clearly not from around these parts.

“I asked you if you’d seen the Italian,” he said in a voice so choked I could scarcely hear him. “He’s got a package for me.” He sounded like a little kid asking for candy at the five and dime, poor fella.

“I remember your wife,” I told him. Indeed I did. Mouthy woman, real pushy. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Couldn’t scarcely call her pretty, she was so pulled and pinched. All bleached out, too. She reminded me of a lemon. She actually tried to flirt with me in that scratchy purring voice of hers, posing her skinny body like I’d be interested. When that didn’t work, she got kinda prickly, like the world owed her a favor. No more kitty-cat; she was all shrill business. Pushed right past me. I wasn’t about to hit a woman, though I was sorely tempted, let me tell you.

The city slicker kept yammering in his tight little voice.  Something about the package he’d paid for and how he wouldn’t leave until he got it. He stood there, legs spread and arms wrapped around like his torso like he had some kind of intestinal disorder. I had to work some to keep myself from laughing.

I stood up, mostly to stretch my legs but also to get a better look. I swear he cringed. “How ‘bout you describe this package?” I suggested.

Darn if he didn’t hold out his little hands like a schoolboy describing the lunch he lost. I guess I must have chuckled at that. “Big as a breadbox, eh?” I recall saying. “You must want it bad to come here on your own.” Without your pushy wife, I could have added.

““I’m more than capable of handling this on my own,” he replied with a quaver that gave lie to his words. “Deal’s a deal. I want what I paid for.”

He was trying to sound tough. Honestly, it wasn’t working. For one thing, he was practically shaking in his fancy boots. He tried to stare me down but he kept looking away.

Time to end this show, I thought. The Missus swears I’m trying to scare the tourists. Hell, I’m just having a little fun. Anyway, I flashed him my kindliest grin, walked down the steps and clamped a hand on his shoulder. He flinched.

“I reckon if it means bread enough to bring you out on a scorcher like today, you damn well deserve it. Pasquale doesn’t like visitors, as I told your wife last time she was here. Interrupts his creative process, or so he tells me. We can make an exception though, just like we did for your spouse.” Who almost didn’t get through the door, thanks to the Missus. I suppressed another grin. My wife is protective of her employees.

“Let’s get you something to drink. I’ll even give you a quick tour of the bakery. Then you can be on your way with the best prosciutto bread around these parts.”

 

Apr 102019
 

Finally, after weeks suspended between seasons, the barren brown earth had at last yielded to a happier palette.

robin 1

Gordy Wright

Dots of yellow and splashes of fuchsia and orange appeared randomly. Forsythia bushes lined the sidewalks in lemon. Daffodils stood at attention, trumpeting the arrival of warmer weather. Encouraged by a welcoming sun, the hyacinths surfaced, adding a dash of purple to the canvas and perfuming the air with their delicate fragrance. Early tulips reached languidly out of the ground, tightly coiled but for hint of pastel. The hardier pansies were already proliferating.

The previous night, a light breeze had stirred the branches of the fruit trees, encouraging them to display their spring wardrobes. This morning, pear trees were wrapped in clouds of white, and apple trees wore petals of palest pink. Even the cherry trees got into the act, their cotton puff blossoms peeking out from fresh buds. It was more than enough to send Robin into flights of giddiness.

“This is SO beautiful, absolutely the most amazing day!” she cried out, stopping for just a minute to turn her head from side to side. “I mean; have you ever SEEN anything like it?” Then she was off again.

The old-timers looked knowingly at one another. They’d learned not to trust the promise of a lovely morning. Veterans of seasons past, they were more likely to reflect on premature frosts or persistent droughts. Robin wasn’t interested in their practical cynicism. For her, the world was new, filled with wonder and possibility. Let those stuffed shirts sit and complain. She was having none of it.

robin 4

Carry Akroyd

Instead she danced in circles on the emerald grass and hopped between the flowerbeds. She was in ecstasy. “Yellow!” she sang. “Pink, purple, orange, green, blue. Look at how blue the sky is. It could not be more perfect!”

Glancing around, she announced, “I’m going to smell the blossoms,” and flitted over to the nearest pear tree, where she leaned in and inhaled deeply.

She stopped then, caught between confusion and a hint of desperation.
“I can’t smell it. Why can’t I smell it? Is there something wrong with me?” Now she looked around anxiously.

“No, it’s not you,” Jay called out from his perch on the fence. “The smell is really subtle. Try the apple tree across the street. You’ll catch a scent over there.”

“Okay, let me try that.”

She disappeared into a swirl of pink and white. He imagined he could hear her filling her tiny lungs with the intoxicating fragrance.

“Oh, that’s so much better. Yes, this is more like it. Thanks, Jay!”

robin 3

Richard Spare

“Wait until the lilacs start to bloom,” he responded encouragingly. “Or the spice bushes. Of course, it’ll be greener then; you won’t have the same color intensity. Nothing beats spring.” He paused to consider. “Although I’d have to say autumn is pretty special, too.”

“Better than spring?” Robin asked, her head still buried in the blossoms.
“Hmm, maybe not better, but different. Autumn colors are mellower.” Jay reached for the words to paint a picture, so she might see the season as he did. “They’re not light and airy but deeper, richer. It’s as if the world was painted with copper, bronze or gold, precious metals that saturate the trees, the ground, even the sky.”

“It sounds really pretty.”

“It’s simply beautiful. Wait until you see it. My father told me autumn was Mother Nature’s big fling, her farewell gesture. She pulls out her most expensive palette and lights the place on fire. One last hurrah before she . . .”

He broke off when he noticed she’d left the tree and hopped up onto the fence by his side. Now she was looking at him with bright, inquisitive eyes, her head cocked.

“What are you talking about, Jay?” she asked. “How come you look sad? What happens after the big party? Is it something bad? What does Mother Nature do?”

Jay wished he could kick himself for going on. He reached out and gave her head a little pat.

“You know what?” he said lightly. “It’s not important. Why even think about autumn when it’s spring? It’s a beautiful day. Go on and enjoy it.” And he waved her away.

“Okay.”

He watched her take off to chase butterflies. Filled with the energy and innocence of youth. Not that Jay was all that much older, but he was far more experienced, and he was tired. Glancing at his reflection in the window, he saw that he was big for his age, broad across the chest and strong from years of exercise. His reputation for aggression may have been exaggerated, but it had seen him through a number of seasons, some gentle and others much less so. In fact, he’d endured several long, lean winters by being more than willing to put himself first. That’s what his kind did—which was why they generally outlasted the others.

Jay wasn’t a fool. He knew he was in constant danger. They all were. Tough as any one of them might be, there was always something bigger, faster, stronger, and more deadly. His siblings survived by being opportunists and bullies. He tried to resist those impulses, which only made him even more of an outcast. He accepted it all: his strength, his personality quirks, and his general lot in life.

Robin was a different story. She was open and trusting, a breath of fresh air in his cruel and capricious world. He liked being around her even though her innocence sometimes made his heart ache. She seemed so defenseless. He’d watched over her since she was born and had kept danger at bay. But there was only so much he could do.

The statistics told the story. Most robins didn’t survive their first year; and she, tiny and with an underdeveloped set of wings, would not last even that long. There would be a cat, a car or—he hung his head in shame—a bullying blue jay that would make short work of her. Or some other force of nature would do her in. She might never see an autumn glowing like molten metal or marvel at a single snowflake. Instead, she would likely perish along with many other fledglings doomed to die in a winter they’d forgotten how to flee.

Why did Mother Nature have to be so cruel?

He heard Robin singing. There was no bitterness in her sweet music. Ignorance is bliss, Jay thought and then, and why not? He shook himself and lifted his head to the warm sun.

In the distance, Robin lifted a wing and called out, “See? Best spring ever.”

robin and bluejay