Typing
her words
to enter them here, running through my mind these scraps of
writing that remain
was a way to feel her presence and to ever so faintly relive
our time together.
It also led to one little surprise after another. There was
much that mattered
to her that I wasn't aware of. There's the detailed account of
her trip to
Europe with Ann, before we dated, and her "Pregnancy Book"
notes when
trying to get pregnant the first time. And there's her notes
about a year of
nearly continuous pain she went through in 2001 that, in
retrospect, sounds
like early rumblings of the problem that killed her twelve
years later. We were
lucky we had her with us as long as we did. And at the end,
she was probably so
used to pain in that area that she wasn't alarmed.
I
consider her
every unedited word important, capturing the texture of her
thoughts, indications
of her aspirations and frustrations.
A Light in the Windo
January 4, 1966, school assignment at Girls'
Latin School
I clutched my coat tightly about me and
shivered with every step that I attempted. The rain poured down as
if it were trying to drown me and the thunder and lightning
shouted at me like warnings from the gods. My car had broken down
about five miles back and, trying to find help, I had wandered off
the main road and was now hopelessly lost. Suddenly, almost like
magic, a light appeared in the distance. With my arm stretched
forward to protect my face against the rain and wind, I staggered
on. After what seemed to me like hours, although it really wasn't
quite that long, I came upon an old, sixteenth century type of
house. The mere sight of it would have frightened even the bravest
of persons. I stood there watching the mysterious house for a
second. The piercing wind and ran urged me to go on; and yet,
although I couldn't explain it, I was afraid to enter. Finally I
could stand Mother Nature no longer. Reluctantly I approached the
house.
After taking a few steps, I found a black cat
crossing my path. Although I am not superstitious, this seemed
like a bad omen. I gathered my courage and continued my journey.
When I reached the front door, I found it open. I glanced into the
hallway, but could see nothing. I wondered from where the light
had come which had guided me to this place. I entered and shut the
door behind me. Then, in a loud, hoarse voice, I asked if anyone
were there. No reply came. I tried again and again. Finally the
raging weather took its toll.
I fell to the floor unconscious.
Awaking, I discovered I was not on the cold,
hard floor I had originally fallen on, but on a soft warm bed. I
sensed someone in the room and looked up to see an old woman
standing at the edge of my bed. She was about seventy years of
age, wore a blue denim dress reaching the floor, and had her hair
up in a bun. I started to ask her who she was, but she hushed me
and fed me. All day and night she tended me. She spoke not a word.
Then as dawn approached, she kissed me tenderly on the forehead.
In that second I believe that my fever broke. I looked into her
kind, blue eyes and felt sleep come over me.
A Light in the Window
January 4, 1966, school assignment at Girls'
Latin School, apparently a continuation of the story above
I awoke about noon. I searched the house for
the old woman, but couldn't find her. Finally, in desperation, I
went to the local police. They swore that they never heard of such
a place as I described. I convinced them to drive out with me to
the house. there was no house to be found. Perplexed, I drove back
to my home.
Since I still felt a bit dizzy, I consulted a
doctor. He told me I had had pneumonia, but that the worst part
was over. He also said I was a lucky man. My sickness could have
killed me.
I was confused beyond all hope. My life had
been saved by a person who didn't exist. She did exist, though. I
was determined to find her and repay her. I hired private
detectives. After two years, they still hadn't not found her. Then
one day, I was crossing a rather poorly kept street when I chanced
to look into an antique store. There on the wall was a picture of
a woman with three small boys around her. Although she was a bit
younger than my mystery woman, I recognized he3r immediately. I
entered the store and inquired about the painting.
The old proprietor, who seemed to have plenty
of time to spare, was thrilled to tell me the strange story of the
woman in the painting. The woman had had three sons, the ones
shown in the picture. They had gone off to war and she had
promised to keep a light in the window waiting for them. It was at
the Battle of Gettysburg that all three were killed on the very
same day. When she heard the news she went into a state of shock.
She cried, "Oh, my sons!" She never spoke another word again. She
lived for twenty-four more years and every day she lit a candle
and placed it int he window. She died exactly one hundred years
ago.
I bought the portrait and left the shop in a
daze. Three days later, I visited the old woman's grave and placed
flowers on it. It was the only thing I could do.
The Gruesome Grave Affair
published in the June 1966 issue of
Jabberwocky, the literary magazine of Girls' Latin School in
Boston, MA, from which she graduated in 1967. Short Story Contest
Winner, Division II.
Four deaths had occurred at Fort Michaels.
Generally, I try to avoid such gruesome matters. But these four
murders had a special fascination for me. Each had been committed,
it seems, for no apparent reason. "No reason" caused me
considerable unrest. After all, I was one of the four victims.
A little known death regulation is that every
"ghost" is allowed to settle his affairs before he takes his
journey (up or down). The normal time allotted for this task is
twenty-four hours, but under special circumstances the time can be
extended. Since every death is recorded in the "Log of Deaths," I
was able to check the circumstances of the other three murders.
None of the three victims had seen the villain. All had been hit
on the back of the head with a blunt instrument. My three fellow
deathmates had attempted to discover the identity of their
murderer, but their labor had been fruitless. I realized that
unless I discovered who the murderer was, more victims would
follow us into the cemetery. I'm not the type who is out to save
humanity, but I am selfish. I had to stop this killer. Ghostland
was getting too crowded and we're not exactly looking for new
residents.
I decided to do my sleuthing as a dog. Why a
dog? No special reason, but I always wanted to be a cocker
spaniel. I entered the house where I had been murdered -- an
average-size fifty-room mansion. Not only was the house spooky
enough for (if you'll pardon the expression) ghosts, but it was
also the perfect scene for the crime.
After checking the house for clues, I managed
to settle upon five suspects (the only people inthe house): Mr.
Connors, the master of the house; Mrs. Connors, his wife; David
Anthony, their nephew; Joan Cotter, Mr. Connor's secretary; and
Herman Dootle, the butler.
I checked my evidence. Each of my suspects had
a strong motive for killing at least one of the victims; yet none
had a strong reason for killing the other three. Only Herman
Dootle had no motive. (I included him in my list of suspects
because "the butler always does it).
All my suspects seemed to lead suspicious
lives. Mr. Connors and Joan Cotter were in love with each other,
but of course Mrs. Connors wouldn't grant Mr. Connors a divorce.
David Anthony wanted the family estate, which was held by his aunt
and uncle. Herman Dootle wanted a raise (much deserved).
The only thing that we four victims had in
common was the fact that we were visiting the Connors Mansion at
the time of our deaths (and also that we were dead). I decided to
follow that lead. I invited (with the help of ghost magic) Lord
Kyber to visit the Connors. He was to be my bait. I then watched
him every minute that he was a guest int he house. However, I
cahnged myself into a piece of dust, because every time I got near
a suspect, Herman Dootle put me out into the yard and chained me
to a doghouse. Suddenly I was purged of my desire to be a cocker
spaniel.
I watched for several days (my time was
extended). Nothing happened. Then one day, while hiding in a
corner from the duster, I saw Lord Kyber descend upon the library.
He was followed by one of my suspects. I watched in terror as I
saw the suspect hit Lord Kyber on the head with a frying pan. I
then knew what all the victims held in common. How could I have
been so stupid? I'll never know. Just then I was dusted away by
Herman Dootle.
As I lie here in my hot and stuffy grave I
think of the advice I'd give to a young person (if a young person
were to ask for my advice). My counsel would be brief, but simple:
"Never tell a person he makes bad coffee, especially if he is the
butler."
The Crime
in notebook from April 1970, early draft of a
play written as a school assignment at Albertus Magnus
Dennis -- Suzy -- Johnny -- Deborah
2 young married couples, college students.
Seeing: a living room of a young couple's
apartment. It's quite contemporarily decorated: a few chairs, a
comfortable sofa at the back wall, a circular rug on the ground, a
cabinet, a small table, and a few side tables with lamps. 3 side
doors; one beside the sofa leading from outside. 1 on either side
wall.
Enter 4 young people
Dennis: (bent down as he opens the door with
the key). I don't know. I still think Peter didn't know what he
was doing. After all, Celia was quite convincing.
(They all enter room)
Dennis: Let me take your coats.
(The boys take off their coats, then help the
girls off with theirs. Dennis takes the coats into the next
bedroom, side-door left. Suzy directs Johnny and Deborah to seats
and sits down. Dennis returns and plops down on a seat.)
Dennis: The director really had a cool idea in
presenting the seduction scene. The haziness got his effect
across.
Johnny: You're not supposed to say anything.
You're only supposed to watch. I wasn't going to say 4 club.
Deborah: Why not?
Johnny: Well, because I could win with 3 club,
but maybe not with 4.
Deborah: But you have more than 4 clubs. You
have the Ace and the Queen and the...
(Deborah's voice trails off as Johnny stares at
her in a warning tone, and then throws his cards down.)
Johnny: (coldly) Redeal.
(Dennis gathers the cards up and begins to
deal, then stops)
Dennis: I don't really want to play.
Deborah: Neither do I.
(Johnny turns around to a sulking Deborah.)
Johnny: I'm sorry I got so mad. Cards always
seem to bring out the worst in me. As soon as we get home, I'll
carefully and patiently teach you how to play. Okay?
Deborah: Okay.
Suzy: Hey, how about something to eat or drink.
(general acknowledgement).
Suzy: Okay, what'll you have?
Dennis: Beer.
Johnny: Beer
Deborah: A Coke, if you have it.
Suzy: Fine.
Deborah: Can I help?
Suzy: Sure, come on.
Both girls go out to the kitchen, side-door
right. The boys put
the table back and the chairs. The girls bring out the drinks.)
Deborah: Let's do something exciting.
Suzy: Like what?
Deborah: I don't know? Can you think of
something, Johnny?
Johnny: No. How about you Dennis?
(Dennis hesitates, then nonchalantly says)
Dennis: Yuh, we could always smoke.
Johnny: You mean marijuana?
Dennis: Yuh, I have some int he house. Have you
ever tried it?
Johnny: No. I've always wanted to, though --
under controlled circumstances, that is.
Dennis: Well, this is pretty controlled Here we
are in my living room. Nothing can happen to us here. What do you
say?
Johnny: Sure, Dennis. I'd like to try it. De,
do you want to?
Deborah: Yeh, I'd like to.
Dennis: Okay, then I'll get it.
(Johnny and Deborah exchange looks as Dennis
goes into the bedroom and brings out a bag of grass, a pipe, a
tiny box of papers, and matches. Dennis and Suzy sit on the floor. Johnny and Deborah soon
follow. Dennis fills
the pipe with some marijuana).
Dennis: Just inhale and then hold it in for
awhile.
(Dennis lights the pipe and takes a prolonged
puff, then offers it to Suzy who does the same. Suzy gives it to
Johnny who does it. Then Deborah does it. It is passed around the
circle a few times and then it goes out. Dennis fills it again and
lights it.)
Johnny: How long will it take us to get high?
Dennis: You probably won't. You never get high
the first few times. I did on the second, but most people don't
until the third or fourth.
(Dennis puffs from the pipe, then gives it to
Suzy.)
Johnny: Oh. I was hoping to get high tonight.
(Johnny smokes it, then gives it to Deborah,
who smokes it, then passes it on. As it goes around the circle a
few more times, Dennis makes a "joint" by rolling some marijuana
into two of the small papers from the box. As soon as the pipe is
out, he lights the joint and takes a large inhale. He is obviously
wrapped up in it. Suzy
does likewise, and Johnny does it, a bit amateurishly, too. But when Deborah tries
it, it is too strong for her and she coughs and it falls out of
her hand.)
Deborah: Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.
Dennis: That's okay.
(He takes another smoke and passes it on. After Suzy smokes it, she
begins to laugh.)
Dennis: What's so funny?
Suzy: I was just remembering what Professor
Grip said at his last lecture. He's so funny.
(Both Dennis and Suzy laugh.)
Deborah: I feel a bit strange. My head's dizzy.
Johnny: Lay on me.
(Deborah lays her head on Johnny. Dennis makes another
"joint" and lights up. Only Dennis, Suzy, and Johnny smoke it. AS
son as it's through, Dennis gets a brainstorm.)
Dennis: Hey, let's go driving around and go
into the coffeeshop and blow people's minds.
Johnny: How would it blow people's minds?
Dennis: Well,
we talk kind of disjointed now. Whoever we talk to won't be able
to understand us because we'll be talking in only bits and
phrases.
Johnny: But we can understand you.
Dennis: That's because you've smoked some grass
too. What do you say?
Want to come?
Johnny: No, I think Deborah and I'll sober up a
bit, then go home. We're kind of tired.
Dennis: Okay. You're the ones missing out. I'll get our coats,
Suzy.
(Dennis goes into the bedroom with the stuff.
The other 3 just sit there.)
Johnny: Isn't it kind of dangerous to drive.
I've heard marijuana slows down your reaction.
Suzy: It slows you down a bit, but we'll be
driving so slow it won't matter.
(Dennis returns with his coat on and the keys
in his hand. He gives Suzy her coat. She gets up. They both go to
the door.)
Dennis: Sure, you won't change your mind?
Johnny: No, thanks the same, but have a good
time.
Dennis: We will
(Dennis and Suzy leave. A few minutes silence.)
Johnny: What do you think?
Deborah: I don't know. I still feel a bit
funny.
Johnny: Yuh.
Deborah: Do you know anything about marijuana?
Johnny: Ver little. Nothing can really be
proved about it. It may be safe. It may be dangerous. It's a
calculated risk.
Deborah: Oh.
(She looks down, kind of wondering.)
Johnny: What's wrong?
Deborah: I don't think I should have tried it.
It isn't fair to take a calculated risk concerning our baby.
Johnny: (laughing) Don't worry about "our
baby." When we have one, we'll be careful. Besides we don't have
to smoke again.
Deborah: Yuh, but...
Johnny: But what...
Deborah: Uh... I meant to tell you before, but
I was waiting till the right time. I saw an obstetrician and...
Johnny: You're pregnant!
(Deborah nods her head. Johnny hugs her.)
Johnny: That's great. Oh -- I shouldn't have
let you smoke the grass. I'm
so dumb.
Deborah: It's not your fault. I should have
known better. Besides, Dennis said it takes a while to get high.
You can't on the first few times. I don't think it'll hurt the
baby just this once.
Johnny: Well, anyway, I better get you home.
Stay here and I'll get the coats.
(Johnny goes into the bedroom and brings out
the coats. He helps Deborah up and is helping her on with her coat
when the phone rings. They both look at each other for a moment,
then Johnny decides to answer it.
Since the phone is in the bedroom, he goes in there.
Deborah sits down, but since Johnny leaves the door ajar, she can
hear his end of the conversation.)
Johnny: Hello...Dennis, is that you?... What's
wrong? ... Oh, my God no... Is she hurt bad? ... Sure, I'll come
down... What hospital? ... Okay, now calm down. I'll be there in
half an hour.
(Deborah stands. She is scared. Jonny comes out
of the bedroom. He is shaken.)
Johnny: That was Dennis. There's been an
accident. Suzy's been badly hurt and has been taken to the
hospital.
Deborah: Oh. How's Dennis?
Johnny: Okay, just a few scratches. The doctors
don't know if Suzy will live.
Deborah: How did it happen?
Johnny: You know the Old Creek Road? It's dangerously windy
and narrow. There was a big truck and Dennis got bored, so he
tired to pass it. Another car was coming towards it. Dennis had to
swerve and he went into a tree.
Deborah: Oh, how terrible
Johnny: I promised to go to the hospital. I'll
drop you off at the apartment ont he way.
Deborah: I want to go with you.
Johnny: No, I don't want you to be upset in
your condition.
Deborah: Johnny, do you think it might have
happened if we hadn't been smoking marijuana?
Johnny: I don't know, Deb. Dennis is generally
a good driver and his thinking and reactions must have been
influenced by the smoking.
Deborah: And he wouldn't have been on that
joyride, either.
Johnny: Yeah, but don't forget, accidents can
happen, even with the most cautious drivers. I don't want to talk
about marijuana. I want to get to Dennis. He needs me now.
Deborah: You're right. All this is just
academic. Suzy is what is important.
Let's go.
(They leave.)
__________
Attached notes --
Have Johnny ask Dennis how he started. Change
discussion of movie to Boys in the Band.
Dennis and Suzy kind of inhospitable to leave
Johnny and Deborah in apartment.
Phone call =too dramatic.
Ending too preachy -- who play is preachy. Need
more interesting incidents.
Enrich dialogue and characters
Maybe have Dennis and Suzy in apartment alone,
planning evening conversation, then joined by Deborah and Johnny
Write different, more interesting base form on
Boys in the Band.
Change to Deborah and Johnny's apartment.
Have Dennis picked up on possession of
marijuana.
Maybe have Dennis and Johnny go out for ice
cream -- Deborah and Suzy can talk.
Discuss having marijuana on person.
What will Dennis lose if picked up? i.e.,
government scholarship or job.
Maybe make Suzy pregnant, but Dennis doesn't
know -- Deborah pregnant, but all know.
When Suzy and Deborah talk, they can talk about
pregnancy.
Have Deborah already have her baby.
In set show kitchen as well as living room.
Therefore, Suzy and Deborah can talk and move
in there.
Have them play scrabble instead of poker.
The Porcupine
October 1974
Submitted to (and rejected by) Boston
Educational Re-search Company
Once upon a time there was a very friendly
porcupine named Joe. He liked everybody and very much wanted to
have friends, but no one like Joe. It wasn't that they didn't like
Joe himself. They just didn't like his long sharp quills. Whenever
anyone would get close to Joe, his quills would stick into them.
So Joe had no friends.
One day, Joe heard a noise. He ran to see what
was happening. He saw a skunk sitting by a tree crying.
"What is wrong, Mr. Skunk?" he asked.
"No one wants to play with me," said the skunk.
"Why not," asked Joe.
"Because I smell," said he skunk. "I don't mean
to, but at time I just do. I'm so lonely."
'No one wants to play with me either," said
Joe. "Maybe we can play together."
The skunk stopped crying. "But you'll have to
be careful of my smell."
"i will be and you'll have to be careful of my
quills," said Joe.
"I will be," said the skunk.
"Hi. My name is Joe," said Joe.
"Hi. My name is corky," said the skunk.
And Joe and Corky became friends.
Mud
October 1974
Submitted to (and rejected by) Boston
Educational Re-search Company
There once was a little girl who liked to play
in the mud. She loved the mud. She'd make mud pies and mud cakes
and mud cookies and mud sundaes. Anything that could be done in
the mud she would do. Her name was Emma, but people called her
Muddy.
One day, Emma couldn't find a mud pool
anywhere. It hadn't rained in a long time, and everything was dry.
Emma cried. She looked and she looked, but she couldn't find a mud
pool. Emma's mother
felt bad and tried to make Emma happy, but she couldn't.
Finally, Emma's mother had an idea. She went
outside and turned on the hose and poured a lot of water on the
ground.
What do you think she made for Emma?
The Mermaid
October 1974
Submitted to (and rejected by) Boston
Educational Re-search Company
Once upon a time there was a boy named
Christopher. One day he went fishing. Early in the morning, he set
out in his boat. He paddled for over an hour. Finally he reached
the spot where he wanted to fish.
He put a worm on his line, then threw it out
and waited. Nothing happened. He waited some more. Suddenly, his
line began moving up and down. Christopher pulled at the line. The
fish was really big. He pulled. The fish pulled. Finally he saw the fish.
It wasn't a fish after all. It
was a mermaid.
Christopher was surprised. He pulled the
mermaid into his boat and started rowing home. He wanted everyone
to see his catch.
"Please let me go," said the mermaid.
"You can speak," said Christopher.
"yes, I can. Please let me go. I'll die if I
leave the ocean."
Christopher hadn't thought about that. He
didn't want the mermaid to die. He let her go. He could tell his
friends about the mermaid. They wouldn't believe him, but he
didn't care.
Untitled
February 28, 1999
She sat in the first car in the section that
was going to Boston. She appeared to be looking out at the houses
and roads that swept past fast as the train sped through the night
air, but she was really looking at her reflection. Not bad, for my
age, she thought. Not bad at all.
She was returning from New York, a weekend with
friends. They had splurged and pampered themselves at a salon:
haircut, facial, manicure. Something she never did. She felt
guilty about the Nice and Easy box in her bathroom, but had to
admit the color, Red Ginger, didn't look bad on her new layered
hair. They had seen a play, gone to a museum, and eaten out more
times than she'd done in the past year. Her Visa card had been
busy, but she felt good. She deserved it.
Her husband was at home minding the three kids.
She hoped he had remembered Jimmy's medicine. She felt so lucky
with her life. It had been a long journey. She finally felt good
about where she was in her life.
He was waiting at the station. It was late, but
he smiled broadly when he saw her. "Looks good," he said of her
hair. Sometimes he could say the right thing. He took her bags,
gave her a kiss and led the way to the car. He talked the whole
way about his special project, how it was progressing, how he had
solved a problem he'd been working on for weeks. He was animated
and passionate about his subject as only he could be. She listened
and nodded till it was the right time to ask about the kids. All
was fine. Yes, he'd remembered the medicine. No, her mother hadn't
called.
By the time they got home and she'd checked on
the kids, she was ready for bed. So wasn't he. It's amazing how
going to bed means one thing to a woman and another to a man, but
she was alright with it tonight. She was happy and she had missed
him. She had to get up early tomorrow, but it was okay. Life felt
good.
The walk
July 24, 2003. Buried in a notebook used for
work
And we walk, walk, walk through the valley,
looking for the road.
And we walk, walk, walk through the valley,
hoping to not grow old.
It is cold. Very cold.
And we walk, walk, walk through the valley,
trying to get home.
Where is home. All alone.
And we walk, walk, walk through the valley,
looking for the road.
And we walk, walk, walk through the valley,
hoping not to fold
It is cold. Very cold.
And we walk, walk, walk through the valley,
looking for a friend.
And we walk, walk, walk through the valley,
hoping it will end.
Where's the friend? Where's the end?
Untitled
June 2004. Buried in a notebook with details
about home repair projects.
DAY 1
The children are coming. They don't have a
choice. Their father is dead. They have to be in the same room.
Jack would like that. Not being dead, but all of them together.
It's been too long.
It was fast. Jack wasn't a good "sickie" --- a
bit of a wimp that way, so the accident ended him without the
lingering he would have hated. A shock to me and the kids, but
definitely finale. He was never a fixer-upper, but could hold his
own with duct tape. Who would have thought at 85 he'd decide to
paint the trim? He'd procrastinated about it for so long, hated to
hire someone t do it. Was always careful not to do "dangerous"
household chores.
I had gone to visit my mom at the nursing home.
She's the oldest person there. She hates death and is determined
to live forever. She always joked she'd outlive us all. So far,
she's outlived a husband, siblings, in-laws, e of my siblings, a
few grandchildren, one great grandchild, and a stream of
roommates. She will live forever, but Jack didn't. Outlive her, I
mean. Mom liked him well enough. Of course, she doesn't know who
he is, was, but she liked him. She always appreciated men more
than women. Generational thing. Women did allt he work, wee
expected to sacrifice. Men had a special place in her heart -- her
brothers, her sons, and Dad. That's the way it was, is. Okay --
enough about that.
I was visiting Mom. Jack was climbing up a
ladder. Mom needed to go to the bathroom. Jack fell. I wasn't
there. Maybe if I'd been there, I could have told him he was an
idiot to go on the ladder. Maybe if I'd been there, I could have
held the ladder. Maye
if I'd been there I could have caught him. I wasn't there. Such is
life, death.
Now the children are coming home, finally, all
four, together. Shit, I need a drink. Shit, I need several. Love
them dearly, so didn't Jack, but they're all different. Only thing
in common is 2 parents, the family home, the ability to separate
from us and themselves to have their own life. They love both Jack and
me. Just don't, didn't want to spend too much time with us. They
went for the yearly "quality/necessary" visit. I never understood
how my mom and sister kept their kids so close and how mine got so
far. I like to think I gave them wings. They flew off. Apparently,
they are not homing pigeons.
Okay, they are coming home. Jack is dead.
What's next. I know what's next. They don't. hey are not going to
like it. Yippee. They
think they are coming home to a mom they are going to have to take
care of. I can hear them now. We need to put her in a nursing
home. No, she seems fine. She should live with one of us. Who? Not
me. Too busy. She'll be lost without Dad. What's she going to do?
What am I going to do? I'm going to live. It's
my time.
DAY 2
The first knock on the door. Hi, Mom. Here we are.
How are you?
Untitled
undated
The middle-aged woman poised her fingers on the
keyboard. She was writing her resignation letter. How had it come
to this? It was only her second day, but so far the new job had
not materialized as she would have hoped. She had experience, she
had skills, she was good at what she did, extremely dependable and
proud of doing a good and thorough job, but here she was, sitting
at the receptionist desk, trapped at an entry level job.
She had no one to blame but herself. She had a
fairly good job, a bit unfocused, a bit unappreciated, a lot
underpaid. She knew it was time to grow. She had paid her dues and
was now ready to show the right company what she could do. A head
hunter contacted her. It was a combination
administrative-marketing position.
She would be working just with the marketing director. It
had promise. Ture, the job did call for the position to be the
front desk, but there would be so few calls, what with everyone
having their own direct phone line.
The interview with the director of marketing
had gone well. They
had clicked. The director talked about mentoring, learning, and
taking the job where it could go. It sounded good. However, there
was that little pesky problem about being at the front desk. The
middle-aged woman decided to be honest. If she didn't get the job,
it wasn't meant to be. She disliked being chained to a desk,
unable to complete one's assignments. If calls had to be made, it
was difficult and rude to put someone you had called on hold while
you answered another call. She
took pride in solving problems. If she didn't know the answer to a
question, she would find someone who did. If you were stuck at the
front desk, it would be hard to go about to find the right person
and to complete one's task. You also couldn't easily talk to one's
mentor about one's project. The front desk was very stifling.
She also stressed the need to be a part of a
team, working with someone, not just having people throw things at
her to accomplish.
The middle-aged woman also had a young son, 6
years old. She needed flexibility in her work schedule to address
his needs sometimes. Occasionally she needed to juggle going to a
school function.
The director listened to her needs and said she
would see what she could do.
The middle-aged woman felt they had established a contact.
She had been very impressive in the interview, not only stating
what skills she felt she could bring to the company, but also what
she felt she needed from the company. She went away from the
interview feeling good. Whether she got the job or not, she had
been herself.
The second interview was just a formality to
see if she was still interested in the job. They talked more about
the need for flexibility. The director said she was trying to get
the marketing position away from the front desk. She really wanted
the middle-aged woman for the job, but was waiting for the
requisition to be approved.
The Menopausal
Monster (a working title)
undated, only item in a notebook
Welcome to my world -- or is it your world? I
never get it straight. Am I the center of the universe or just one
of many mushrooms. I tell people I'm like a mushroom -- ready to
be stepped on. Do I really have choice or do I just stumble into
things. I make decisions. Then people and events intrude, and
everything is out of control again. Who am I? What am I? Why am I?
Sometimes I sit in a room. The shades are shut.
I can believe that the room is all that exists. There is "the
Nothing" and blackness outside. I am all there is. Is reality only
what I believe? Or is it what everyone else believes? If something
happens across town, and I don't know about it, did it really
happen? Is it important if it doesn't affect me?
I hate my job.
Untitled
undated
Do you ever pick up a book, read the back
jacket, think it's one kid of book, read a bit, realize it's not,
then are disappointed? I
do. I don't mind surprises. I just mind distractions. I like a
story, character development, plot development, the end. I hate
descriptions, lots of language, extra padding that fills out a
novel, but loses me. I know I'm a weird English major. I love to
read, but I don't like to be bogged down by an author's using
words to impress himself or the critics. I like a straight path.
Tell me a story. I will listen.
Untitled
undated
Her name was Elynor, not Eleanor, Elinor, or
however other people spelled it. She was who she was. But who was
that? She didn't know. She did know. She had her code, her ethics,
right form wrong. You followed a certain path. If you didn't, you
were wrong. Miss a payment, you were wrong. Use money frivolously,
you were wrong. Not do what was expected, you were wrong. She was
tired. She was mad. She was right. Why didn't Barb and Chuck
agree. Their values
were all screwed up. He was irresponsible. She had no sense. At
least Jane knew what was right. Sort of. Jane knew Chuck was bad
about money. Jane spent all her money on her children. NO thoughts
for the future. Bad. But Jane Knew Chuck shouldn't manage Mom's
money. Jane and Elly should. Why didn't Barb see it? Elly saw it.
Chuck lived with Mom. He needed to let them know how he spent
Mom's money. It was their right to know. They knew best.
Her name was Mary Jane, but people called her
Jane. Her Mom's name was Mary. One Mary was enough in the family.
untitled
undated (brief note)
Unappreciated "secretary" kills "nasty" bosses.
The Fall from Being Nice
undated
It starts slowly, like an erosion, like a cliff
that gradually becomes smaller. You don't see it coming. You just
live through it. You start out doing things for what you feel are
the right reasons, but, through no fault of your own, it becomes
wrong. You could have avoided it, but... when. You dealt with or
didn't deal with it then, and now it's become too big. How did you
get sucked in? How
did you let it happen? And there's the answer -- you let it
happen.
Chapter 1
undated
Okay. There are two kinds of people in the
world (actually there are more, but for this story, I'm dividing
people this way!) those who rule and those who obey. Simplistic.
Yes. Fact. Yes. Am I bitter? Yes. Why? Guess which group I belong
to?
Okay. What do I mean by two kinds of people?
Bosses and Admins. A special world. A civilized jungle. The bosses
are smart, sophisticated, educated. (Again, it's my story so I'm
basing the setting on place I've worked at.
Okay. First. If you're the boss, you make
mistakes, but you never acknowledge them to your colleagues, to
your underlings, to yourself. If you're the admin, you make
mistakes, you get berated for them.
Fantasy
undated
I'll be ready in a moment!," shouted Jennifer
through the closed door. It was hard to believe all that was
happening to her. One day she was a struggling artist trying to
make ends meet and the next she was an heiress on her way to
meeting a family she had never even known she had. It wasn't the
prospect of money that excited her. If she'd been interested in
making money, she would have specialized in computers like most of
her friends, instead of choosing to "suffer for her art" as a poor
but happy artists (although poor wasn't really accurate; she did
quite well as a free-lance artist). It was the prospect of meeting
real relatives that excited her: aunts, uncles, cousins, and a
grandfather that she had only dreamed of before. To finally belong
was so important.
"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, Mr.
Ambrose."
"Not at all, Miss Kincaid."
Mr. Ambrose evaluated the slim girl before him:
27 years old, blue eyes, long brown hair, medium height, pretty.
She seemed very much to belong to her time: the plaid skirt, the
rose blouse, the "Hanes" pantyhose look. Yet her obvious
resemblance to Sarah Parkington was incredible and sent a warm
chill through his rather old, jaded bones. It was as if the clock
had gone back in time to over
50 years ago when he had first met Sarah, before he'd lost her to
Hamilton.
James, Mr. Ambrose's chauffeur, took Jennifer's
luggage and headed for the car.
"Are you ready, Miss Kincaid?"
"I'm not sure, Mr. Ambrose."
"Quite natural a reaction, my dear. Shall we forge on?"
With a rather weak nod, Jennifer allowed Mr.
Ambrose to lead her to his limousine and into a mysterious new
future.
Untitled
undated
She called herself Delilah (okay, she'd been
named Susan Jane by her parents, but Delilah had a better feel to
her). She knew her calling was to seduce men. Make them crave her
-- make them want to do anything for her. (Okay, so she'd only had
a few. Tom Doyle, when she was 15. Sean Michaels when she was
17.), but she knew she was meant for more. She knew he would come.
He did. She died. So much for planning one's future.
Kate Malone heard her beeper go off. Damn, she
thought. The timing is always off. She finished shampooing Sam's
hair, then called for Steve. He came, as he always did, without
delay. She gave him a quick kiss, then headed for the hall phone.
She heard Steve start the splashing war. The floor would be wet
before the bath was over. Sam and Kris screamed with delight. She
sighed, then picked up the phone, dialed, said: "Lt. Kate Malone,
you beeped?"
"Her name is Delilah Samson. She's been dead
for 12 hours. Preliminary suggests she died on impact. Hit and
run. I can't for the life of me figure why she'd be out here by
herself. Nothing around for miles. And with those 3" spiked heels,
she wasn't here jogging.
Kate Malone listened while Ben Jowel gave his
report. She took in
the crime scene: deserted road miles from town, late teens, brown
eyes, long brown hair, thin, belly button showing, short red tank
top, low jeans, black boots, lots of blood. She'd been run over
again and again, by subject and vehicle unknown. Lots of things
were unknown. What was known was Delilah Samson was dead and
Delilah Samson had been murdered. Kate didn't know which was worse
-- the death of a young girl or the first homicide in 25 years in
Plato County. The young girl's death really was the worst, but a
homicide in her peaceful community was a close second.
The three men sat around the table sipping beer
and eating chips. Daniel preferred nuts, but it was too hard to
much with his teeth. Johnny shuffled and shuffled and shuffled.
"Will you deal the damn cards, already," snapped Charlie. "I'm not
getting any younger."
Johnny smiled. He loved psyching Charlie out.
It was so easy to rattle him, sometimes too easy. It always threw
Charlie's game off a little. This Johnny liked because Johnny
liked to win. Then he remembered that Daniel already had 100
points in the game. He frowned. He would have to win the next
hand. He had to have his turn. He had to win.
Kate Malone checked the call log. The hit-and-run had been
called in a 6 PM, but the victim had been dead a good 12 hours.
The road was a very deserted road. The body could have laid there
for weeks and no one might have seen it. But they were lucky. They
had got an anonymous tip. Not quite anonymous. It had to be the
killer. The directions to find the body were too precise.
Kate turned her thoughts to the victim. Delilah
Samson, aka Susan Jane Smith, was just 18 years old. Fresh out of
high school and out of the house. She shared an apartment with
three other girls. Two of them were bound for college, but not
Delilah. She worked at the 7-11 restaurant waitressing. She'd
worked there part-time through high school and now full-time since
she graduated. Kate looked at the pictures of the crime scene.
What was the victim doing there? Had she gone there on her own or
been forced? Lots of questions formulated in Kate's mind. NO
answers developed. She pondered the pictures for a while, then
realized she was just delaying the inevitable. It was the hardest
part of her job, but one she always insisted on doing personally. Kate rose from her
chair, adjusted her harness, put on her coat and hat and headed
for the door. It was time to tell Pat and Anne Smith that Susan
Jane was dead. Kat motioned Ben to join her on the way out.
Untitled
undated
We are all born equal. But we're not. If you
are born with money or encouraging parents or "special girts,"
doesn't that give you a certain edge? I don't know. Probably.
Definitely.
Then there are those of us who aren't born with
that edge. We're the ordinary people, the minions, the ones
without "goals." WE want to be happy. We want to find our place.
We want to make a difference. We just don't know how. We don't
even have a clue.
Untitled
undated
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You better stop smoking
It will kill you