The Closet

By John Coultas

A wood of birch, ash and oak created a canopy over the granite outcrop, the trees being home to warblers, thrushes and woodpeckers. Water spilled from the green, gray and gold lichen patched, rock face, a white froth, cascading over boulders and rotting tree trunks, flowing down and then settling into a broad pool surrounded by cattails and bayberry. Translucent minnows swished their way across the graveled pond bed, while a trout, leaped at a negligent dragonfly, fracturing the glasslike surface and the afternoon calm.

"Aunt Mary, was that a fish?"

Mary yawned and stretched, rolling on her side to view her niece. "I was reading Polly, what was your question?"

"A noise, there was a splashing sound in the pond, was it a fish?" Polly was on her knees, anxious to experience more activity.

"Well, maybe we should explore, perhaps we might spy a fish." Her aunt suggested. Mary took Polly's small hand, leading the way along a rock jetty at the waters edge, they crouched, Mary created a visor with her meshed fingers, Polly mimicked, they stared long and deep into the water.

"Nope, no fish Aunt Mary." Polly tilted her head, giving her aunt a disappointed face.

"Hot!" Mary pulled her scarf from her pocket, padding her forehead, bending low she scooped water with her hands, splashing her face, rubbing the back of her neck. "The water is so cool, so Refreshing."

"Aunt Mary?" Polly asked.

Mary focused down at her; there was something small and shiny in her hand. "What do you have there Polly?"

She held it closer. "Is this the key you have been looking for?" Polly smiled up at her, offering the object.

Mary's hand shook as she reached for the key but it was gone, Polly had vanished, it was now, hot and dark. She stood, rotated the handle, clockwise, counter clockwise, she wrenched it back and forth, she pounded on the door, she screamed, "Help me, Help me." She pounded and screamed. There was no answer; she slid back to the floor.

Slumped in the darkness, she couldn't see the perspiration, she couldn't see the grit that covered her, she could only feel and sense the damp and dirt.


Mary and a couple her own age were standing before a white, clapboard beach cottage, in the distance a pelican had swooped down, skimming just above the breakers and further out sailboats could be seen racing for their home ports. "I will be fine; I am going to revel in the isolation, this is my opportunity to finish those last chapters."

Hank opened the door of his new Packard. "Joan, Mary will be just fine, and we can't be late for your showing." Joan slipped into the passenger side, Hank closing the door, turned to give his sister a hug. "We should be back by early Monday."

"I am going to appreciate the sea air and quiet, you two enjoy the city." She waved them goodbye as the car crunched down the gravel drive.

Mary straightened her typewriter on the kitchen table, her manuscript was to one side and her stack of typing paper on the other, a breeze whisked at her neat stacks, she scanned the kitchen counters and then the pantry, returning with two cans of soup, she placed one on each stack. Going to the window she pulled back the sheer curtains, taking in the sun spackled ocean and inhaling the cool breeze with a broad smile. She stood over her place of work, then moving to the stove, filled the kettle with water, setting it on the burner. She commenced a search through canisters on the counter, and then the pantry. A breeze furled the window curtains, followed by a gust that slammed the pantry door shut.


A breeze blew across the harbor, carrying the scents of tar, varnish, fish, and motor fuels. Jim shoved off from the dock and jumped aboard. Mary, her hand on the tiller brought the boat into the wind, the sails snapped and pulled them out, into the channel, passing sloops, cutters, gaff rigs and brigantines, cruising yachts, the working boats, tugs and fishing trawlers draped with nets, plied the crowded estuary.

Mary placed both hands on the tiller, bracing her feet, as they progressed out into the ocean; Jim let out the jib line and Mary the main. A fine spray of salt water came over the bow; they zipped their jackets and pulled their caps down low. Jim, sitting next to her, began whistling, and pulling a leather pouch from his pocket, extracting a pipe, which he filled with tobacco.

"I'm glad you only smoke on the boat, indoors it would be intolerable."

"My dear, our accommodations, one to the other is what makes us such a smashing good fit." He responded with a flourish.

Mary had bent down to avoid the smoke. "Why is it Jim you smoke that, it doesn't have a pleasant aroma, some tobacco does, but not that one."

He shifted to the other side of the cockpit, his smoke drifted away from his mate. "It is all about family tradition, the same brand my father smoked, as did his father." He puffed away. "Breeding and tradition go hand and hand as you so well know. A sail just wouldn't be a sail without a pipe."

"You don't inhale; I know you don't enjoy it..."

He gave her a good scowl. "Now you have done it, you have ruined my smoke."

"I will never understand!"

He tapped the pipe against the rail, clearing the bowl. "Quiet, we don't want the tradition gods to hear such blasphemy, you missed the point, my father always smoked on the boat as did grandpapa, Captain James must carry on."

The sails began to luff, Jim leaned foreword to view the jib. "Let's tighten her up." They began pulling their lines in, the boat heeled into the water the railing submerged, Jim shifted back to Mary's side. Jim nodded, "Mary, without tradition where would we be, the world might fly apart for all we know." They both laughed.

"Ad hoc ergo praetor hoc." Mary intoned.

"Precisely, I don't smoke the pipe and a huge hole might develop in the hull, then where would we be."

Jim was running his tongue around his mouth, making a sour face. "Maybe I should give it up; food just doesn't taste right afterwards, burns my mouth." He massaged the pouch in his pocket.

He bent down to get a sighting of the horizon. "Storm clouds to the east, we better take her in." Mary pushed hard on the tiller bringing the bow around. The winds began to strengthen and the swells became deep troughs.

"Jim you better take over." Mary suggested. Jim took the helm, he stood to better observe the waves that began to break over the small cabin, Mary held tight to the wood railing. A squall enveloped the boat, pelting them with a heavy rain. Water was soaking through their jackets and clothing to their skin.

"Water, water." Mary lay on the floor, stretched out, semiconscious, mumbling. "Water, water."


"Where should we go for dinner?" Mary asked.

"Dinner, is it that late?" Jim had his arm over Mary's shoulder, his chin resting on her head; he eyed the window and the twilight sky beyond. "Do we have to eat?"

"Yes we do, if we try later everything will be closed. Our last dinner needs to be special."

"Sh!" He has returned his chin to the top of Mary's head.

"Don't sh, me!" Mary frowned.

"This is the way I want it to be, just us."

"It will be us always." She leaned her body into his embrace. "We will go down to Luigi's and then work off dinner with a walk to Washington Square." Mary insisted.

Jim pulled her closer sniffing her hair, lightly kissing her lips. "Signore Luigi's it is." He agreed.

"Maria and Signore Jim welcome!" Luigi called out from the kitchen door, and across his crowded dining room.

Jim had a malicious grin on his face as they seated themselves, Mary scowled at him. "Luigi, how are your Yankees?" He questioned.

"They break my heart, those Yankees. My Joe, Joe DiMaggio, he knows how to hit, that boy. Fourth place they are in, break my heart." Mary picked up her menu, shaking her head, Jim smirked.


"Here, we stop right here." Jim demanded, with a laugh. They sat at the edge of the fountain, the lighted arch at a distance.

Mary's teeth chattered. "I should have known to bring a heavier coat." She pulled it tighter, Jim putting his arm around her. "Who's going to take care of me while you are gone?"

"You will find someone." Jim gazed down at her. "You promised no tears."

She wiped at her eyes with her hand. "I'm trying."


A gray dawn entered Mary's apartment window, she stirred and whispered. "Are you awake?" Jim's arm was draped over her, his hand resting on her breast.

"I couldn't sleep." He moved closer to her. "I wanted to soak in every moment with you, the sound of your sleep, your warmth, your softness." Jim explained. Mary turned and kissed him. "There will be time to sleep on the train." He said. She kissed him again.

"I want to go with you, down to the station, to see you off." She pleaded.

"No, this is all I ask, right here, this is what I want us both to remember, this is what will get us through our separation." They kissed and sank deeper into the bed.

Mary stood at her window, viewing Bleeker Street below, only a few cars passing in the early morning hours, tires sloshing water from the morning rain, a young man in military uniform waited at the curb, his duffel at his side, a taxi pulled to the curb, Jim glanced up and waved just as he stepped into the cab.


Mary smiled at Ben, any elderly gentleman, gray spider like eyebrows, clothed in tweed; his chair squeaked as he leaned back, he sucked on the well worn stem of his pipe. "You smiled." He observed.

"Your pipe, made me think of Jim. Yours has such a pleasant aroma, Jim's is noxious, smells like burning trash or something equally vile" She commented.

Ben moved a stack of manuscripts to the floor. "And how is Jim?" He asked.

"Convoy duty is repetitious, they haven't been involved in any action, and being a junior officer he is assigned the jobs no other officers want to take on. He does feel that his men respect him."

"The Canadian military probably is no different than the American. I saw duty in Europe for the war to end all wars." Ben emits a gruff, cynical laugh. "The peace is probably what brought this on, laid the German's so low, and devastated their economy and self respect. We made it possible for a madman to become their savior." He shook his head with disgust.

He reached across the desk. "What do you have there Mary." She handed him a thick manuscript. "Is it good?" He smiles. "Of course it will be excellent; I know to expect the best from you."

"That is only the first half of the novel, by New Years I should have it completed. Not good timing for publication." She settled back in her chair.

"Next fall I'm sure that we will have it in print and bookstores will have difficulty keeping it in stock." He pronounced.

Mary took a shortcut through the park; the oaks, the yellow locust and ash were aflame with their fall colors. As she passed the fountain a young couple sat hand-in-hand, looking off to the arch, light from the declining sun painted the surfaces and angels with a reddish-gold hue. The wind swirled leaves at her feet, forcing her to turn her collar up, her bag swung at her side. Her gaze moved upward to the darkening sky, drops of rain splashed against her face, she lengthened her stride.

Mary darted into Luigi's, out of the rain, hanging her overcoat and sitting at her favorite table. "Good evening Luigi, Cinzano Rosso please." Luigi placed a menu on the table in front of Mary, she picked up her mail, began sorting through the envelopes, one caught her attention, she hesitated, and then took a knife from the table, slitting it open. The letter shook in her hands, her head dropped to the table her shoulders shaking. Luigi rushed to her side, placing his hand on her arm.

"Miss Maria, what is wrong, how may I help you?" Luigi implored.

Mary looked up at Luigi with red, tear-filled eyes, responding, "I'm sorry." She rushed from Luigi's leaving her mail scattered at the table.

Luigi glanced down at the open letter, with sadness he faced his wife uttering, "Signore Jim is dead."


The door slammed behind Mary she pivoted in the dark, trying the handle it turned, she pulled, there was no give. She let the handle go, she tried again, the door just wouldn't budge. A bit of force maybe, she put her shoulder to the effort, no give. Stepping back she paused. "Huh!" She said to herself. Inhaling a deep breath she tried again with no success. She surveyed the door hardware with her finger tips, finding a keyhole. "So, if we have a lock maybe we have a key in here for such accidents." She muttered. Placing her hands on the wall she methodically covered the surface from floor to, as high as she could reach. Both sides of the door were searched, nothing. She twisted to face the shelves of canned foods, and canisters of sugar and flour. "You don't hide this sort of key. Joan what have you done to me, damn." She shouted.


"Joan, it is just so daring, so avant-garde. I will send Michael around to purchase that little one, you know, the one with the yellows and blues." This was from Mrs. Winnie Van Demeer, the grand dame with too much makeup and too many jewels.

"Do let Grace know, she will reserve it for you." Joan was forcing an insincere smile. The dame in question strolled away leaving a wake of perfume.

Hank nudged Joan, whispering, "She didn't understand any of your pieces, just wants to make a show of her good taste."

"Don't complain Henry, we will now be in a position to payoff that new car of yours." She smiled. "Before you ask, I found it necessary to invite her to the party."

"God, how dreadful, she'll keep us up all night drinking and telling about her latest affairs." He sipped at his drink with no enthusiasm. "Such a bore!"


Mary had searched through the pantry, everything was caned with the exception of two canisters, one of flour, the other of sugar, she daubed at the sugar, then the flour, it made a thick paste in her mouth.

Mary twisted in a coughing spasm, her elbow knocking the flour canister crashing to the floor, a cloud of dust enveloped the cramped space; she covered her face with her hands to filter out the befouled air. She coughed, choked and sobbed, again yanking at the door, pounding against it with her head.


"And there we were at the Metropole, he is just too demanding." Madame Van Demeer winked, the one with the jewels. "He demonstrated his expertise at the baccarat tables as well."

"With the war…" A young fellow attempted to insert.

"Tsk." She wanded the air with her beringed hand. "What is this little conflict to me? Michael, maybe a new young fellow will accompany me to Monaco, perhaps the Riviera this season. One never knows." She laughed with hauteur.

Hank was leaning against Joan; both were half asleep, glancing at his watch. "Five o'clock." He yawned. "This party is over, and she is unfazed." He leaned Joan back against the couch, standing with effort and a wobble. "It is with great sadness that I must adjourn this session of our drinking society." He announced with an air of professionalism.

"Oh pooh, and I was just warming up." Mrs. Van Demeer patted her sagging face with a lace handkerchief.

Hank pulled and tugged attempting to get his shoe off. Joan observed his strenuous efforts. "You might want to untie your laces first dear."

He stared at the laces, and began undoing them. "Never again Joan, never." He insisted.

"Hank, that's what you say every time we have one of our soirees. Come here and unzip me."

Hank grumbled as he thumped his way to Joan's side of the bed, one shoe on one shoe off. "I mean it Joan, never."

"My next showing could pay off the mortgage." She commented.

Hank pulled off his other shoe, he was focused off into space, he swiveled to face Joan. "Well, maybe just one more. I almost forgot, Judge Holbrook has invited us to his farm, it's on the way home."

"Not the stuffy old Holbrook's, she is so opinionated, and she will give me a tour of her begonia garden for the umpteenth time, and he is such a dolt. Hank, Mary was expecting us early Monday afternoon."

"Keep in mind, that old dolt is my beloved boss you are denigrating. Mary will be fine, she is resourceful." Hank insisted.

"Well, if you think so dear." Joan was unconvinced.

"She had those chapters to complete. I'm exhausted." Hank yawned, and threw his fully dressed body to the bed where he fell off to sleep.


Polly was using both hands to squeeze the flour sifter, there was a spot of flour at the tip of her nose, and her apron had a thin sheen of the white dust. "This is hard Aunt Mary." She put down the sifter, shaking her hands.

"Yes it is Polly." Her aunt responded. Mary was cracking eggs into a bowl. "I'm done with the eggs; do you want me to finish the sifting?"

Polly exhaled a deep sigh. "Yes Aunt Mary, I think you should!" She took a fork and began poking at the egg yolks.

"Why don't you beat those eggs for me Polly?"

"Do I have to?" Polly whined.

"You do, if we are to have this baked for our picnic."

"Well I guess so." Polly began whisking the eggs with the fork.

"I'm full Aunt Mary." Polly heaved a sigh of satisfaction and lay back on the picnic blanket, her small hands patting at her stomach, staring at the sky. Mary began packing plates and utensils in the hamper.

"And what did you enjoy most Polly?" Mary asked as she closed the basket.

"Well." Polly was deep in thought. "I would have to say the fried chicken, hmm, but maybe the biscuits and honey. To be honest Aunt Mary it was all just so yummy." Mary smiled down at her niece who was closing her eyes, and began breathing deeply.

Mary pulled a notebook from her tote bag, jotting thoughts, sensing the cooling breeze, and observing the movement of the trees, and the song of the lark in the upper reaches. She leaned back to let the sun warm her face.

A shadow crossed over her, there above her was Jim inspecting the scene. "What are you doing here?" She smiled and asked.

"I came to see my girls. It would appear that Polly enjoyed her lunch." He sat down next to Mary, glancing at a sleeping Polly.

Mary opened the basket. "We left you some chicken and one or two biscuits, Polly always enjoys the biscuits."

"They feed us well on the ship, I didn't come to eat, I needed to be with you, if just for a short time, I'll have to get back." He placed his hand on her shoulder, she wrapped her arms around him, they murmured, sighed and kissed.

"How is it Jim, the ship?" She released him to take him in.

"It is a good crew, good officers, my men work well together, maybe we are just resigned to what our mission is. Cold and damp is the only complaint, constant fog, clothing just doesn't keep the cold out." He rubs at his chin.

"You seem thinner Jim, pale."

Jim was watching activity down the hill, something cought his attention. "Skipper's down there, he's calling me back." Jim studies Mary for a moment, they kiss. "I'll be back." Mary watches Jim march down the hill with military bearing.

Mary called out. "But Jim, when will you return for good." Staring up into the darkness of the pantry she asks, "When will you be back?"


Mary was lying on the floor, covered with flour dust, her breathing labored; she rolled to her side, rose and once again tried at the knob, her head hit against the door with a hollow thunk. She began to unbutton her blouse, and removing it, with care she attempted to brush off dust and wrinkles, placing it on an open shelf. She then removed her skirt and repeated her efforts. She returned to the floor, lying with her mouth and nose to the gap at the threshold, breathing in a thin layer of untainted air. Her hand brushed at perspiration running down her neck and between her breasts.


Jim was leading Mary into a waltz amongst a very staid and proper gathering, a country club crowd. He had a broad smile, Mary is suffering. "You are the most beautiful woman here, smile." He complimented. Mary responded with a sour squint.

Mary made a point of scanning the room. "I don't believe there is a person in this room I would want to bring into my circle of friends, nor attempt to converse with."

"Moi, you are including me." He responds with mock hurt.

"No Jim, not you. This is not the way I want to live; these are not the people I would share my thoughts and feelings with. And as for beauty, that is very thin, as with effervescence it too soon vanishes"

"Mary, you know I meant the inner you, your mind, that is what I find exciting, attractive about you."

"Well you better!"

He has his broad smile again. "Now what?" She interrogates.

"Will you at least let me enjoy the effervescence while it is with us?" His attempted compromise was accepted with a slight twinkle in Mary's eyes. They swirl off into the crowded floor.


The lights from the Packard played across the front of the cottage. "Strange." Joan commented.

Hank steered onto the drive. "What's that dear?"

"There are no lights on inside the house."

"Mary might have gone to bed early." He responded.

"Knowing Mary she would be up all night working on her book, odd." She frowned.

Hank pulled the car to the end of the drive. "Mary!" Hank called out to his sister as he flicked on the kitchen light.

Joan observed the table, typewriter, manuscript and paper all neatly arranged; she looked to the sink and stove. "Hank, there is something terribly wrong here. Other than this," She pointed at Mary's work area. "And the kettle on the stove, nothing has been disturbed; everything is as I left it."

"I'll check the guest room." Hank offered, as he ran from the room.

Joan took a soup can from atop the manuscript and walked to the window, viewing the phosphorescent breakers and then refocusing on the kitchen as Hank rushed in. "She never unpacked." Hank blurted, out of breath.

"No! The pantry." Joan shouted. "Hank, get the key."

Hank fumbled with a collection of keys on a wall rack, raced to the door, unlocking and pulling the door open, Mary's crumpled, soiled body rolled onto the kitchen floor. She swung her floured hand to shield her eyes. "Light." A soft exhale came from Mary.

Birds

Birds
Copyright © 2012  John Coultas


"He's doing it again." Mrs. Lester Howard shook her ladle, flecks of oatmeal flying about the kitchen. Mr. Howard, her husband was attempting to enjoy his last cup of coffee and finish the paper before going off to work. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the offending fowl.

"There's not a thing I can do, that's his property and God only knows who owns the birds in the sky." He lifted his paper, creating a thin barrier between himself and his wife as she stomped about the room cleaning oatmeal from cabinets and floor.

"A nuisance, that's what it is," as she straightened, "and I'm the one home all day, having to listen to the chatter, they swoop down over my head, no end to it." She was on a tear. "I'll phone the police, again." Ranting to her husbands unlistening ears.

Mr. Howard stood and escaped with, "Won't do any good." The slamming of the door was his final retort.

Going to her phone Mrs. Lester Howard dialed with care, waiting for her connection she wiped dust from the instrument. "This is Mrs. Lester Howard." Listening. "Yes, it is me again. He has no business feeding those filthy birds." Again she listened. "If there isn't a city ordinance, there most certainly should be. Nasty, dirty; if I had a gun I would go over there and shoot every last one of them. If I had a gun I would be tempted to shoot him." She pulled and twisted at the cord, at last shouting, "No, I do not own a gun. Mr. Lester does not either. But I could, I could go right down to the Western Auto and get a nice new gun." She frowned as she was interrupted. "Well I haven't shot him so I guess you just can't do a thing about it now can you. Hello, hello." To herself she mumbled. "How dare he, hang up on me. I'll have a word with his superiors." Placing the receiver back in the cradle, she walked to the window, squinting out she sniffed at the air, scrunching her face and slamming the window fast.



"Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith". Mrs. Lester Howard shouted to her neighbor across her freshly painted, white Pickett fence. Sitting in a unraveling rattan chair, Mr. Smith was tossing bird seed out onto his weed covered yard, although weeds were hardly visible for the hundreds of birds gathered about him, cooing and pecking. He did not respond to her entreaties. "The birds Mr. Smith, you have too many birds." Her shouts went unheeded. "That man!" She mumbled. She makes one last effort, "I have contacted the police, the authorities will take action!" She bluffs. Mr. Smith continues to throw seeds to his hungry wards. A beatific smile is welded to his face.

Standing over her Maytag, wringer washer she squeezed the last bit of water from her husband's white, long sleeve work shirt, tossing it into the laundry basket, she then peered out the service porch door, across the yard, and out to the clothes line. All was quiet, all was safe. Carrying her basket outside with cushioned footfalls, with purpose she avoided glances to the sky or over to Mr. Smith domain, not wanting to bring a curse upon her head or laundry. With skill and speed she pinned the laundry to the line; finishing she looked upon her work with satisfaction. Returning to the house the same way she had come, with equal silence, quietly closing the service porch door with a sigh and a smile.

Mrs. Lester Howard leaned back in her overstuffed chair, her feet on her footstool. On the radio she listened to "The Guiding Light." She sighed, then smiled, falling asleep. She wakes to a loud squawking sound. Jumping to her feet, she tripped over the footstool, breaking her fall with the arm of her couch. Running to the back porch door, looking out, her over- active fears were realized. Birds, hundreds of birds were hovering, hanging, dangling, clinging but most importantly, soiling her laundry. One large bird, a bird the size of a pelican was entangled in one of Mr. Lester Howard's white, long sleeve work shirts, ghostly arms flailing.

She was irate, grabbing her broom she ran, slipped, slided, and skided her way to what as left of her laundry. In a fit she began hitting at the birds foolish enough not to have departed. The large entangled bird as her focus, she beat and beat upon the trapped creature, blood began to stain Mr. Lester Howard's white, long sleeve work shirt. The apparition had gone limp. She screamed, roared and bellowed; tears streaking her contorted face.

Running to here freshly painted, white pickett fence she expressed her vehemence. "My laundry, you have ruined my laundry." She raged at Mr. Smith who sat in his chair, smiling, feeding his birds. "I will kill your birds, every last one." She screamed. "Do you hear me, Mr. Smith, I will kill your birds, if you get in my way I will kill you."



Mrs. Lester Howard was pelted by rain as she darted to the house, tossing her bloodied weapon to the side as she went. Several minutes later she reappeared, composed; she wore a jacket, a wide brimmed hat and white gloves. She started her car, driving off down Main Street. Next to the Piggly Wiggly she pulled in front of the Western Auto store.

As she approached the clerk at the sporting goods counter; she was greeted with an, "afternoon ma'am".

Mrs. Lester Howard responded with a glower.

"Raining outside?" The clerk continued with a smile.

"I hadn't noticed." Mrs. Lester Howard responded. She dropped her wet purse on the counter; he attempted to divert water off the counter with a swish of his hand..

"How may I help you?" The clerk was getting the sale back on track.

"A gun, I want a gun." She demanded.

He smiled, unsure what this lady would be doing with a gun. He interrogated further, "And for what purpose did you want a gun."

"Birds, I want to kill birds." Was her strong, reasoned response.

"Ah," he nodded, "birds, how many birds are we talking about." He inquired.

"Hundreds, I'm going to kill hundreds of birds."

His face creased with a wide grin, he was a happy man. "Right this way, that will be a double barrel shotgun and quite a few boxes of birdshot."

Mrs. Lester Howard pulled away from the Western Auto in a pouring rain. She attempted to view the road between the slow sweeps of the windshield wipers. Pulling into her driveway she saw that police cars and an ambulance were in front of Mr. Smith's house; lights were flashing, officials moving about the residence. She crouched low to protect her packages as she ran to the back door. Entering the house she heard a knocking at the front door.

Mrs. Lester Howard opened her door to a towering city policeman who looked down upon her. She was standing in a puddle of water on her highly polished hardwood floor. Strands of wet hair hung along the side of her face, below her wide brimmed hat. Her white gloved hands were holding the brand new, boxed, Western Auto, double barreled shotgun.

"Officer Blaine." He introduced himself as he flipped through a small note book. He began, "Mrs. Howard."

"Mrs. Lester Howard." She corrected.

He attempted to continue, "Yes, I see here you phoned our office, made complaints and threats concerning Mr. Smith, is that correct?"

"Well." She exhales. The weight of the gun began to weaken her arms, it dropped lower and lower.

He again paged through his notes, "A neighbor reports hearing you threaten Mr. Smith's life, in a rage, is that correct?"

She offered a fatigued smile as the the box slipped through her hands to the floor. The Western Auto, double barrel shot gun rolled from the box, through the puddle of water, resting at the feet of officer Blain. He rapidly flipped through more pages of notes.

He sighed, "You reported this morning that you didn't have a gun in the house." His statement was met with a dazed glare. "Your neighbor, Mr. Smith is dead, you have a gun you said you didn't have; we need to take you in for questioning."

A very limp Mrs. Lester Howard was walked through a now light rain and darkness to a waiting patrol car. She cast a somber look upon her home as she was driven away, on the clothesline the wing of the large, broken bird waved goodbye.


Chief Franklin called Patrolman Blaine into his office. "What ya got there Blaine." The chief croaked.

Blaine referred to his notes. "Neighbors say Smith spent most days and nights under that pergola, always feeding the birds. Most of the neighbors hated him, because of the birds, messing up everything, scaring kids and pets. Birds were always on the roof of that thing, the pergola. City engineer will have to look at it to be sure. It looks as though with all the rain and the bird buildup."

The Chief interrupted, "Bird shit, call it what it is Blain."

"Yes, sir; anyway it appears that with the rain, the accumulated weight brought the structure down on Mr. Smith." Blain relaxed.

The chief growled, "send the broad in, I'll explain the situation to her."

"Chief, it's Mrs. Lester Howard." Blaine inserted.

A Bad Day

It had been a bad day for John. It started with a phone call from the library, an e-mail had been received about his wife, attending an international conference on hunger. Her purse had been stolen, she owed a huge hotel bill, and how was she going to get home, and how was he going to scrape together such a large sum and send it off to Nigeria. But the oddest part of all he though that he had breakfast with his wife this morning. Strange! International conference, they gave to the food bank and the mission, but an international conference?

Then there was the second e-mail, the presenter for this evening’s workshop could not fulfill her obligation, an ill child would come first. More drama! Working with library staff, some quick changes and resolutions were found.

The presentation had some problems, somehow John mistook himself for Professor Moore, the mother with the sick child, he was frazzled by the, DRAMA! He failed to point out this. And that as well. The attendees were surely confused?

He noticed that Kevin was there, along with a long suffering woman, that must have been his wife, poor woman. Roberta was there, she had brought along Val. The attendees went into breakout groups. Relief arrived in the form of an open reading session. There was a humorous story of a cat having its first bath. Kevin read his poem recounting an amorous interlude, oh, how he embarrasses his wife. Val told of her experience visiting a Jewish concentration camp.

John looked around the room, he saw Val and Kevin and…what happened to Roberta, she was, or had been with Val. How is Val going to get home if Roberta has left without her? There was next a prologue to a mystery novel concerning a farmer and mysterious green lights, followed by another romantic interlude. But the real mystery, what happened to Roberta?

John had offended several of the writers by skipping over them; the artistic ego is easily bruised. He scanned the table to see if he had missed anyone else. A silent gasp, an intake of breath, mystery solved, Roberta had been sitting next to him
all this time. Without exposing his mental deficiencies he asked Roberta if she had brought something to read. She complied with a piece on memories slipping away. John could only think of his mind slipping away, So much drama. So much frazzle. If only he drank.