A Piecemeal Kingdom

Jon was ten years old. He was probably strong enough. He could beat up Kevin if he wanted to. He just didn’t want to yet. He didn’t really need friends. They would probably be doing something else when he wanted to go outside anyway. He guessed he had everything he needed and usually did not ask anyone for anything.

Jon liked talking about his room, even though not many people seemed interested. He had started off with only one tunnel from his room to the backyard. He thought it was important that he be able to escape if he needed to. You never know when you might need to get away from your mother or sisters.

The second tunnel was to the kitchen. You could get hungry if you spent a lot of time in your room as he often did. This tunnel was a little more complicated than his escape tunnel. To escape, all you had to do was slide down, so a smooth inside was fine. But there was not much point sneaking down to the kitchen through your tunnel if you couldn’t get back upstairs unseen. This tunnel had to have grooves all around the inside and be rubber coated so you could get a grip and climb back up without slipping.

Hew did not really need tunnels to the bathroom and living room since everybody in the family went to both rooms whenever they wanted and nobody said anything when he went to either room. But as long as he had tunnels to some places, he might as well have them to the other places he went. And besides, he could then go wherever he wanted in the house without anyone knowing. He did not yet have a tunnel to the cellar. But he was not sure he wanted to go to the cellar anyway, at least not by himself.

His first robot did not do much. He had to use a control to make it go around the room. He liked it better when the robot was fixed so it would go where he wanted it to just by his thinking about it. He like it even better when he had special robots. He had one which would go down the kitchen tunnel and bring back a peanut better and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk without spilling it. Another robot would pick up his dirty clothes and take them to the hamper. One could clean the floor, taking the dirt into its feet and then dumping it out the window through its mouth. That was pretty neat. He had one that would play video games with him and another that could play chess. He was just learning to play chess but the robot would not help him. So far he had lost every game.

His father was willing to take off a whole day from work any time Jon wanted and he would let him stay home from school so they could work on robots together. The next time they would fix that last robot so it would teach him to play chess better rather than beating him all the time.

One night he knew he had to get out of his room. His feet felt very heavy and he was just able to reach his escape tunnel before anything bad happened. When he slid out the bottom he was surprise to see that it was daylight, probably afternoon. He did not remember there being such a large field behind his house with golden hay or wheat (he was never sure which was which) rustling gently in the b breeze.

He knew he should walk to the middle of the field. Sure enough, the hole he was somehow expecting waited there with a wooden ladder sticking up about two feet in the air. Without any invitation, he backed down the ladder one step at a time.

He finally reached the bottom but it was difficult to see much in the dark. He saw a wooden table with a checkerboard tablecloth set for tea with a silver service and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. It was hard to make out the faces of the couple already seated at the table. As he sat down in the one empty chair, he could tell that they were both quite old and had wrinkled skin. They looked a little like Mr. And Mrs. Slater but he could not tell for sure.

The woman poured the tea which Jon drank to be polite. He did not usually drink tea unless he was sick. He would have preferred cocoa. The cookies weren't bad though.

As his eyes grew used to the dim candlelight, he could make out three holes in the walls which looked like they might be carved out of the dirt. He thought he saw a white Persian cat disappear into one hole. In another he saw what looked like red beady eyes and long whiskers which might have belonged to a very large rat. He could see nothing in the third hole.

Looking back at the table he could see that the candle was about to go out. He began to panic and knew he had to get out fast. He dove for the third hole, hoping that the old people also had an escape tunnel. He was lucky to find himself of the floor next to his bed.

Jon also sometimes talked about his favorite activity outside of his house. They were building a new set of houses a few blocks over. The workman would go home at night and then he could play there. You had to find a house at just the right stage of being built. If you waited too long they would have already put in the cellar stairs. It was just right after the concrete blocks for the cellar and foundation were laid but before any wood was added.

At just the right time, you could keep people in the clear so they could not get out. You could make them take their clothes off and it would be up to you whether they could keep their underwear on. You could probably keep as many as ten people at a time in the cellar. I f you had any more, you would need extra guards because the people could help each other get out. Even then, if they did help each other, you could shoot them in the arm or leg if you had a gun so they could not climb any more.

Jon’s therapist said they did not have time to talk any more today. He said he wanted to have Jon’s mother come in with him next time to see what she thought of all he had said about his house. He also said that if his father could get a pass from prison for a home visit, he would like to have him come in too. In the mean time, he wanted to show him some pictures to see what they looked like to him. Jon could just use his imagination an there were no right or wrong answers.

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The Child Bride

I stop a minute to catch my breath. How can I hide in the woods wearing a white wedding dress? They’ll find me easily. I didn’t choose to wear this dress. What would any thirteen year old girl want with one? But I did choose to run into the woods. My only other choice was to go through with it. Maybe the elders will use the hunting dogs to search for me? I haven’t heard any barking since I headed for the trees. All I can hear are men’s voices off in the distance.

Some of the men are good trackers. They always return from their hunt dragging dead animals. What if they find my footprints or a branch I broke pushing it out of my way? My legs are bleeding where the thorns scratched them. Just a little spot of blood will tell them which way I went.

I make my way down the hill toward the faint sound of water. As I move toward it, the bubbling grows louder. I see some rocks. There must be a creek or maybe even a river nearby. A creek would be better. I’ll wade in it for a while and then come out on the opposite bank and brush over my footprints. If they try to track me, I’ll throw them off my trail. I remember seeing that done in an old cowboy movie once before I came to live at Living Waters Retreat.

When I reach the stream I sigh, not realizing I had been holding my breath as I ran the last few feet. The water looks just deep enough for me to wade in. Up close, it sparkles crisp and clear rather than brown and muddy. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until I stopped running. Is the water safe to drink? How can I tell? I’m too thirsty to care. Kneeling, I gulp from the stream, slurping in a way the Sisters taught me never to do. They aren’t really my sisters, just bossy older girls and women.

My poor legs. I look down to see them scraped, bruised and covered with mud. They’re still stubby and short but I thank them for carrying me as far and as fast as they have. Stepping into the stream, I do my best to wash at least some of the mud off my legs. Splashing water on my face refreshes me a little too. I needed a drink but I guess it’s dumb to worry about washing. It changes nothing but at least I feel better doing something for myself.

Can I rest for a few minutes? At the top of the hill, men’s voices echo through the trees. “Which way did she go?” “Could she have gone down the hill?” “Jeanne, where are you. Come back.”

Oh, no. They aren’t far behind. I’ve got to start wading downstream. Maybe I can make it at least a few hundred yards before I head further into the woods. It’s hard stumbling over these pebbles. I wish I had sneakers on my feet rather than formal white shoes. At least they’re not high heels. The elders wouldn’t let thirteen year old girls wear them. I’d waddle like a duck and make the wedding ceremony look sillier than it already was. Anyway, they preach that only wayward women wear such shoes. What exactly is an elder and who put them in charge anyway?

After splashing along until my breath gives out, I climb out of the stream and up the bank, taking just a moment to listen to the woods. Trickling water provides the only sound other than my panting like a dog. Then an owl hoots. No voices. No barking. I need to catch my breath. I find a tree to lean against and some dried leaves which look softer than the rugged forest ground, all sticks, dirt and gravel.

How did I end up here? How could this happen to me? Four years ago when my parents brought me to what I thought was a camp, I enjoyed the adventure. I stayed in a cabin with the other nine and ten year old girls. That was fun, at least for a while. But every time I turned around, I found myself in church. I attended prayers before breakfast and more prayers before lunch. After supper everyone gathered in the church for a sermon, bible readings and still more prayers. A couple weeks later I finally asked my parents when we were going home. I still remember my father’s words “Why Jeanne, we live here now.” What a shock.

Classes met between prayer sessions but not for reading or math or anything else I remembered from my first few years in school back home. Just bible stories and lectures about how to be an obedient child. The adventure soon faded and I started to miss my old friends. One night I could see Daisy in the next bed was still awake and whispered to her. “Do you remember where you lived before you came here?”

“We lived in a blue house somewhere and I remember some of my dolls. It seems so long ago. But this is my home now.”

“Will you ever return to your old home?”

“I don’t think so. My parents told me we would always live here.”

“Don’t you ever wonder what our life will be like when we grow up?”

“No. Reverend Aaron will tell us what to do when the time comes for us.”

I started to feel like I was in a prison with no way out. I pretended to go along with it all, but I suspected something wasn’t right.

One Sunday just after I turned twelve, everyone gathered behind the church in the field next to the forest. Somebody had set up a white canopy on tent poles in the middle of the lawn and surrounded it with palms and flowers. The elders surrounded Reverend Aaron. Next to him in a white robe waited a man who must have been at least fifty, maybe even older.

I saw Daisy walking between her parents toward the canopy wearing a wedding dress. Revered Aaron and the elders were about to marry her to that man. How could they do that to her? Daisy was only a year older that I was. I would never want to marry an old man like that.

The community celebration that night was one of the few times I got to eat with my parents. When I thought no one was listening, I leaned over toward my mother. “Mom, isn’t Daisy a little young to get married?”

“Jeanne, Reverend Aaron and the elders know best. They decide when the time is right.”

“Will they decide for me too?”

“Of course, when the time is right for you.”

“But what if I don’t feel ready? I don’t even know what it means to be married.”

“That’s why they’re the elders. They know best.”

I could tell that conversation was going nowhere fast. After lights out one night, a new girl had taken over Daisy’s bed. I asked her about getting married. She whispered something about sex but I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. I just knew I would live with a man rather than with the other girls.

Now here I am a year later, expected to marry a man who looks about the same age as Daisy’s husband. I know only that his name is Evan. We have never spoken or been introduced. How can the elders expect me to marry him? I’m still not sure what it means to be married.

No one in the community would take my objections seriously, especially if I complain about getting married. I should be happy. Besides, questioning the elders is unheard of.

Right up to today, I tried to think of some way to get out of it but couldn’t come up with anything likely to work. I just couldn’t go through with it. At the last minute I broke from my parents and ran for the woods.

It won’t do to sit here the rest of the day trying to think of a plan. If I stay here much longer, they’ll find me. I’ve got to do something.

The sun will start lowering into the west by mid-afternoon. At least I know a little about the sky. At our morning walk, the sun rises in the east. By our afternoon walk, it’s heading west. But the dense forest blocks out the sun and the sky.

What if I follow the stream? It must go somewhere. That’s it. At last I have a plan. Pulling myself up from the leaves, I brush off my soiled dress and start walking downstream, ignoring the blisters on my feet and the scratches on my arms and legs, the mud all over me.

I must look a mess. Hopefully I won’t frighten anyone. Maybe a kindly woman will find me rather than a man. Even if a man does find me, I look a fright and too ugly for him to consider marrying me, regardless of what the elders might think.

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Fascinated by a Chandelier

Waiting for Carol to finish shopping, I sit on a metal mesh bench watching people come and go through the mall entrance. I hear footsteps behind me and a figure comes into view. Is she more appropriately considered a girl or woman? As she walks, she releases her camera from its case. It could be a thirty five millimeter like my old camera. These days it’s hard to tell. Better quality digital cameras look just like their film bearing ancestors. She might be in her twenties, but giggles like a teenager. Her casual clothes don’t add any clues to her age nor does her gait. She ambles casually toward the exit. Where’s she going and what’s her plan?

She’s pretty bold to just walk up to people and photograph them, even if she asks them first. It’s never been easy for me to do. I’ll just have to wait and see. She checks her camera and satisfies herself that it’s ready for business. The door swings open and in walks an Asian couple, she behind him, talking in what sounds to me like Chinese. She ignores them although they glance at her as if she might approach them. They exhale when she doesn’t.

Three teens and the probable mother of at least one of them arrive next. Maybe she prefers to photograph teens. They look at her in anticipation and curiosity. She glances down at her camera but makes no effort to engage them as subjects or models or whatever she is looking for. Maybe she’s not as bold as I thought. The girls and woman head for the handbag shop.

I see her look out to see if anyone else is coming. No one is. Is she sorry she missed two opportunities? What’s her next move?

She looks above her head at a chandelier I hadn’t noticed when I came in or while I sat monitoring the door beneath it. Gold colored metal tubes suspended groups of small incandescent bulbs in patterns suggestive of constellations, but none familiar to me.

She aimed her lens at them, focused and snapped several pictures. Satisfied, she enclosed her camera in its case, slung it over her shoulder and slowly made her way to the bench behind mine, resuming her giggle. She seems self conscious. I hadn’t sensed anyone behind me but now catch snatches of her conversation with whoever waited there.

“… the lights…”, “…a few pictures…”, “…thought I’d try…”

I lose track of her conversation as I consider the chandelier now captivating me, the only exceptional décor in an otherwise drab, institutional structure. How could I have missed it? What gave her the inspiration to notice it? I left my camera in the car, not expecting to find any objects of interest in a clothing outlet mall. Had she anticipated finding it? Did she remember it from a previous visit? Or was she always ready for an interesting object to appear?

I turned to see what more I could learn about her, but she was gone as was her camera and companion. Next time I will keep my eyes peeled.

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My Muse

For the past several years, there has been an extra feminine presence around my house. It was not my wife or either of my two daughters. It was more than the female presence of the dog or cat. At first, it was very ethereal, like the memory of a purple dressing gown from Victoria's Secret. There was no form, at least none that was well defined.

She does have other sensory qualities. I can hear her swish by or rustle near me. I can feel her warmth and softness against my shoulder or thigh. At times, I have been aware of a faint lavender scent. I can feel her closeness and the weight of thoughts she wants me to express. I am aware of her restlessness when I choose to read rather than write, and her disappointment when I watch television.

She first appeared after I attended a noontime concert to convince me to write a story about music and schizophrenia. I had not planned to write the story. I had written no fiction since my bungling attempts in high school English class. All I had published were newspaper articles about mental health. All I had written recently were psychological test reports.

I did have a new computer. I knew enough about computers to know that there were no ideas inside. All the computer could do was say yes or no, although it did so in some very sophisticated ways. Somehow I sat at the computer and my fingers typed the first story. Others followed, without my realizing they were her stories.

I found out the hard way that muses do not like being ignored. I decided that I needed to concentrate on my finances for a while rather than on my writing. Soon I found that attempts to write yielded wooden outlines, stony starts and ideas which scattered like feathers in the wind.

I thought she was gone for good. I guess I deserved. it. I never thought much about how to entertain a muse. I have since come to realize that muses are much like people. If there is nothing to interest them, they move on. I did not invite her to come to me in the first place, and did not know how to get her back. Maybe somebody else could use the books I had bought about writing. I could go back to enjoying others' fiction.

Sitting at the picnic table outside my cabin last summer, I realized my muse was back. The swish was there, the warmth. Was that lavender in the air? I had another chance. Learning from past mistakes, I finally realized that my job was to make her comfortable, give her space in my mind, and listen to what she whispers to me. I will have to take better care of her. Next time she leaves, she might not come back.

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Noontime with Schrizophrenia

They talked about it for several weeks. Finally yjr program was posted and a driver chosen. The fall season had begun and none of them had ever gone before.

A local radio station broadcast a weekly live music program from a music school during the noon hour. The program began at 12:10 and ended at 12:50. Just time to be there and back for afternoon appointments.

The prospective listeners were staff at a mental health center. Just who would go was uncertain until the last minute. Several expressed interest. Changing clinical demands made it unclear who would finally be free to go. Adding to the interest was a radio announcement that a Poulenc Sextet would be played by a visiting quintet. The mathematics of this arrangement provided a certain amount of intrigue.

The final entourage consisted of a representative mental health team. At the wheel was a psychiatrist. At shotgun was a psychologist. Squired in the back were a psychiatric social worker and a medical records technician. They set out in jaunty good humor in anticipation of a rewarding lunch hour.

A minor crisis arose outside Hochstein Music School. There were no parking spots in sight, several nearby lots were full and curtain time was drawing near. One lot appearing open was conducted by a humorless man pleading vehicle overflow and inability to accommodate the would-be audience. While leaving the lot, car movement was detected across the street. With brilliant execution, the psychiatrist commandeered the vacated spot in a con brio finale.

With moments to spare, they reached the auditorium. The music school had formerly embraced a religious congregation. What was now an auditorium was formerly a church of somewhat unusual configuration. Floor level and balcony seating spanned a two hundred seventy degree arc with no straight lines in sight. Risers stood at the back of what formerly constituted a sanctuary. In the center of the room was a large floor space which now featured five chairs, music stands and a piano. One mystery was solved by the printed program. A school staff member was to round out the sextet at piano. To one side the radio announcer stood ready to introduce the program.

The mental health team arrived just as the program was about to start. Listeners were scattered throughout the auditorium. A busload of children occupied the front rows near the entrance. The last of this group were just being ushered into the pew. One empty bench separated them from a somewhat scruffy looking man. The mental health team made for an empty bench behind him in an effort to merge with the audience before the performance began.

While surveying the stained glass windows, a crumbling cornice under slung by a net and space for a missing pipe organ, the team became aware of an odor, at first faint and musty. It took some time to realize that the odor became stronger as the man in front of them moved. The odor was not an olfactory delight. The team realized they were in the presence of a long unwashed man with a quite limited wardrobe.

He also checked twice on the contents of his worn shopping bag in which the by now nosy psychologist could see two graying sweaters and a large can of disinfectant. Seeing that the contents were still safe, the man resettled his bag beside him.

Two of the team managed to eat their lunches, somehow filtering out the aroma. One sat far enough away as to be oblivious. The other diner alternated between hunger pangs fueled by nearby lunches and nausea associated with the offending natural perfume from the bench ahead.

After introductions, the concert began. The team was briefly absorbed in the Beethoven. However, clinically tuned ears soon sensed that the man was talking to himself. He was also keeping time with his body but swayed with an inner rhythm not matching the performers’ beat.

He appeared to become more disoriented during the middle piece with its more abstract musical patterns and lack of regularity. He asked no one in particular whether a pause meant the conclusion of the piece despite lack of applause.

During the Poulenc, he appeared to lose interest in the music. When people left early, he wondered aloud where they were going. Twice he checked the time. This he managed by removing his large wallet, opening the change purse and consulting the body of an elongated pocket watch residing within.

He grew restless toward the end of the concert. He sat sideways, noting early departures. One of his legs pointed its foot toward the door. He glanced often in the direction of his planned escape. At the first sign of applause, he was in full stride toward the door, bag swaying wildly.

Ambling toward the car, the team’s conversation turned to the man. All agreed that they had gone to the concert to turn their thinking from mental health, at least temporarily. The psychiatric social worker deemed herself fortunate to be far enough away as to be oblivious to the man. She had enjoyed the concert. The psychiatrist admitted some distraction, and, although not venturing a diagnosis, recognized the man as mindless of his mental as well as personal hygiene. The psychologist was quite annoyed at the olfactory and auditory intrusions into his anticipated musical trance. The medical records technician, also a musician, noted that the man talked louder when the music was louder and softer when the music was softer, exhibiting reality contact at least regarding crescendo and decrescendo.

The team agreed that the expected transport into the right brain experience of the concert had been only partially successful. They also agreed to try sitting in the obsessive-compulsive rather than in the thought disorder section for the next concert. The man provided a graphic reminder of the transitory nature of bliss. Perhaps his role was to remind them of their calling and that their work would always await them.

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Or Not To Be

Iris fretted when Grumps suddenly ran in his Irish Setter way toward the two people sliding out of their car half way up the slope in Owen Park. It’s too hot to chase him today, especially with this long gingham dress I have on. What was I thinking. Why doesn’t he know any better?

She squinted in the sun but still couldn’t make out what was happening up the hill. Her sunglasses helped with bright sunshine but she needed her distance glasses to see that far. How can I wear both at the same time? Getting old sure ain’t for sissies. She started after him but had to stop to catch her breath every few feet. As she came closer she saw a young couple leaning down to pet Grumps. His bark welcomed rather than warned them and they had the wisdom to know the difference. Thank heavens.

Grumps followed them to the picnic bench on the bay side of the pagoda, hoping they might have something for him in their picnic basket. The couple, just recovering from dog licking and sniffing, saw a presence lumbering toward them. It appeared to be a huge woman moving as fast as possible but at closer to a hippopotamus waddle than a racehorse gait.

Iris secured her wide-brimmed straw hat and hiked up her dress in order make faster time, but without much success. She struggled up the hill as quickly as her legs would carry her, lately not as fast or reliably as they once did.

Having arrived at the bench and after catching her breath, Iris managed to wheeze, “Don’t mind me. I’m crazy, says you.” They stared at her with upturned eyebrows. Iris saw it as still her turn to talk. “I’m sorry if he bothers you. He likes to get free from his leash from time to time while he chases sand crabs. I don’t know where he gets the energy, especially with the sun so hot today. I can’t keep up with him.” She brushed away beads of sweat trickling down her face. “Nobody else was here before you arrived and there was no one for him to bother. He saw you before I could get him back on his leash.” She finally realized she needn’t worry, Grumps had already settled himself on the grass.

“I’m sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. Where are my manners? Name’s Iris. Born and bred on the Vineyard. I know most of the people who live here. You must have come across on the morning ferry.”

The woman staring at her agape, finally saw her chance to get in a few words. “Glad to meet you, Iris. I’m Karen and this is my husband Josh. Actually we came on the Katama yesterday afternoon with the tanker trucks. We just walked down from Nancy’s Auberge a few houses up Main Street. We’re staying there for a couple nights.”

“How is Nancy? I don’t recollect seeing her lately.”

“Oh, you know her? She told us she doesn’t get out of the house much any more.”

“At one time she sat here in the park every day watching the sailboats and ferries coming and going. I could set my watch by her. Always here by nine and gone by noon.”

“We packed our wine, cheese, hummus and crackers for lunch. Nancy said she would love to join us but her old bones weren’t what they used to be. I think she misses coming to the park as much as you miss seeing her.”

“You’re sitting on her favorite bench. I’m sure she’d be perched on it right now if she could. So you say she’s having trouble getting about. Sorry to hear that. Well, I thank my stars I can still walk at all. What would Grumps here do if I had to spend the whole day sitting at home? What would I do?”

“So your dog is named Grumps?”

“My heavens. Once again I apologize for not properly introducing you. I would ask him to introduce himself, but he’s not partial to formalities. Me neither, come to think of it. I guess he did introduce himself in his dog way.”

Seeing Josh obviously lost for words, Karen felt a need to reply for them both. “No harm done. Glad to meet you and Grumps. Do you have a place here in Vineyard Haven?”

“Too snooty for my taste except for Owen Park here. No. We hail from Edgartown. Of course, we don’t live on the main drag, but tuckered away a few blocks from the Harbor View, or is the word ‘tucked?’ Do you know the hotel?”

“Sorry, we just arrived on the Vineyard yesterday and this is our first visit. We plan to explore Edgartown tomorrow. So you live near the hotel?”

“More behind it than near it. Tourists don’t bother with my street much. Who wants to drive a big car on a narrow one-way street if they don’t live there? Why bother indeed. If they’re on foot, even less reason to wander by. While I’m on the topic, why bother bringing a car to the Vineyard with all the crowds this time of year. It would just overheat while you’re stuck in traffic in the blazing sun. Anyway, there’s just houses up there where I live. Nothing much to see. Say, your husband doesn’t say much, does he?”

Josh scratched his head trying to figure out how to respond to her. Karen spoke for him again to let him collect his thoughts. “My turn to apologize. Josh is still catching his breath after his stint as my pack animal all morning. The hotter he got, the more he reminded me of the donkeys in the Grand Canyon. He’s about as worn out as your Grumps is but at least he doesn’t pant.”

Josh counted himself lucky that Karen had carried the bulk of the conversation so far. He merely stood, mouth open, wondering what kind of apparition stood before them and trying to decide what he could say to her. He finally managed to stammer, “Glad to meet you, Iris. You and Karen had such a good conversation going, I hated to interrupt. But I was listening.” He tried to think of something semi-intelligent to add. “How did you come to live in Edgartown?”

“Come to live? My parents birthed me there. At first they had a place Up Island but they moved to Edgartown around the time Harold came along. That’s my brother, Harold, of course. Mam and Pap’s move had nothing to do with Harold however.

“My father wore himself out fishing on the Menemsha boats and moved the family here, that is to Edgartown I mean. Somehow he landed a job shuttling the On Time Ferry back and forth between Edgartown and Chappy. He didn’t bring home much money but my grandfather died and left us his house in Edgartown. We couldn’t afford to pay the mortgage. The taxes burdened us quite enough.”

Josh, on a roll, continued, keeping up his end of the conversation. “Did you work in Edgartown?”

“Off and on. I worked as a maid at the Harbor View. Didn’t last long though. Maybe I didn’t act the part. All the other maids looked so demure all the time, don’t you know, curtseying, bowing and scraping. Not for me. After they let me go, I found work cleaning shops after hours. That suited everyone just fine. I needn’t deal with anyone except to collect my paycheck and they needn’t look at my ugly puss.”

“Do you still clean at night?”

“Heavens, no. I gave that up when I reached sixty-two. Social Security you know. I don’t get much but at least it’s enough for my vittles and dog food for Grumps.”

Karen jumped back into the conversation. ”How do you spend your time now?”

“Well, after I gave up on working for a living and started on the dole, at least that’s what we called it in the old days, I tended my gardenias. Every morning all summer I loaded my bicycle basket with their blooms and worked my way up and down the street delivering one to each house. After a while, people expected me at a certain time and stood out on their front porches, leaning on their railings waiting for their deliveries. Of course, they didn’t see me in the winter. I just bided my time waiting for summer again so I could pump up my bike tires and get back to my route.”

Karen never heard of such a pastime. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“Oh, I got something from it as well. I had constant offers of morning tea and biscuits or muffins depending on the ladies’ fancy that day.”

Josh struggled to stay involved in the conversation. “Do you still make your rounds?”

“Heavens, no. As you can see, my body has slowed to a waddle now. What a sight it would be to spot me on a bicycle. You see me in action right now. Grumps and I travel from beach to park to trail to see what we can find, and of course greet whoever we meet on the way.

“I have quite a collection of jetsam I found mostly after storms. Some folks want what I find as souvenirs of the Vineyard and I let my findings go cheap. Of course, not many people wind up in front of my house as I said on account of where I live. But those as do sometimes take a notion to buy what I have for sale. Then Grumps and I splurge on a little extra treat. Both of us have always been partial to crab cakes. I never heard of another dog liking them as well as he does or even liking them at all for that matter.”

Karen made an effort not to leave the total burden of the conversation to her husband. “You sound like you still enjoy life.”

“Grumps and I both do. Neither of us has stayed as spry as we were in our younger days but we do our best. There’s no rush. When we get where we’re going, that’s soon enough.”

When Karen first spotted Iris, she hoped the woman would not stop to talk. But as their conversation progressed she grew fonder of her as an island icon. She also thought a little more highly of the human race realizing there were still people who would go out of their way to please others. She looked at Josh but couldn’t read the lines on his face. She decided to chance speaking for them both. “Iris, we have plenty of food if you would like to join us. Maybe we can even find something Grumps would like.”

“Thank you most kindly, but Grumps and I have gotten behind on making our rounds. Thank you for your most gracious offer but we have our hearts set on making it to Menemsha sometime this afternoon, at least I do. I’m not so sure about Grumps. Nice chatting with you though. If you get a chance while you’re in Edgartown, stop by my house. I might have something you would like to take back with you as a souvenir. Better deal than the shops, I would venture to say.”

Josh and Karen waved to Iris and Grumps as her Buick Roadmaster roared to life. They promised each other not rush to judge by appearances next time. What would people make of them wandering around in their retirement when the time came?

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Horlocher’s Barn

It was 1926 and times were good. The steel plant was in full gear. Locomotives were chugging out of ALCO at a record rate. The grape harvest was plentiful.

Joe lived across the street. Every morning I saw him coming out the side door in a line with his brothers and sisters on the way to school. I always tried to guess where he would be in the line. I didn’t think he even noticed me. He looked over my way from time to time but never said anything to me.

One summer he came out the side door by himself with no where special to go. It was mid morning and the Dunkirk Evening Observer did not need to be delivered until mid afternoon. He kicked a few stones in the driveway and sat on the curb for a while looking at the pattern of bricks in the street.

When he tired of that, he wandered across the street. This was the first time we got to see each other up close. He was still a boy, about ten year old I thought, but I could tell he would be strong. He had long sandy hair that might have been blond when he was younger. Long pants covered his legs despite the summer heat. I heard his family was German but I never saw him wearing lederhosen. He must have been a t least second generation.

Joe and I spent some time together in my yard that first day but did nothing special. I didn’t see him again for a few days and then he came over to spend some time until his papers were ready to deliver. Again we did little if anything of note, just sitting around enjoying the dog days of summer.

The next day I saw him he was working on his bike in his yard and I went over to spend some time with him while he worked on it. Unfortunately I couldn’t be of much help but he seemed to like having me there for company. Over the next few weeks, we began to spend more and more time together.

Once I was in his yard when his father came home. I got the feeling his father wasn’t too keen on the idea of us spending time together. But over the next few weeks, he began to get used to the two of us being together. I eventually met all of Joe’s brothers and sisters and they seemed to take a shine to me. I began to feel almost part of his family.

After a while I began to eat many of my meals at Joe’s house. I felt embarrassed about it but my own family often did not take the trouble to feed me. They often left me home alone and did not really take much of an interest in me. Sometimes I wondered what I was doing in their family at all.

Eventually Joe realized that I was practically an outcast in my rightful family. Somehow he persuaded his father to let me come to live with them. My people were surprisingly agreeable and did not put up any fuss about my moving across the street. It was a remarkable change. For the first time I felt part of a real family. I had never been hugged by so many people before and was always in demand. I felt like a princess.

I still kept my special closeness with Joe however. He took me up to the end of Park Avenue to watch the freight trains rumble by with their clickety-clack and clouds of smoke and steam. I still remember the mournful whistle in the distance as a train approached town.

We often went on an adventure to see the Neptune statue even though it was only a couple blocks from home. It spouted water all summer and was boarded up in winter. Sometimes we would just sit and watch the fountain and sometimes we would splash though the pool surrounding it.

My favorite pastime was walking down to the pier. I don’t remember just how many boats there were but there must have been at least twelve. During the early morning hours the pier was empty but later was full of fishing boats unloading their catches of whitefish and pike. It smelled terrible but was fascinating to watch. Sometimes we would go a little closer to see how big the fish were that day. We would both try to find the biggest one.

Joe and I were both very interested in a famous dog by the name of Rin Tin Tin. We were amazed at his exploits. He had a special trick of jumping up and grabbing a sleeve. We both thought that trick was the nuts. Sometimes he would play that Joe was a bad guy and I as Rin Tin Tin., He would put out his arm and I would jump up and grab his sleeve with a fierce growl. It was great sport.

One day we were lying on the front lawn doing nothing in particular. A middle aged woman was walking down the street and seemed to be going from house to house for some reason. She had just finished next door and was walking by out hedge very close to us. We were both sure she had not seen us and tried to keep very quiet.

Just as she came up to us, Joe sneezed. The woman suddenly saw us and was startled, thinking we might do something to her. She put out her arm just the way Joe did when we played Rin Tin Tin. Without thinking I jumped up and bit her on the sleeve. She fell on top of us but was not seriously hurt.

I never saw such a commotion. I really think she overreacted but no one could have convinced her of it. She insisted that something be done about me. For a while I thought it might blow over, but no such luck. A lot of words were spoken in my defense and just as many were spoken against me.

After all was said and done, I found myself living on a farm to the west of Dunkirk. I was in shock at all that had happened and how quickly things had turned around for me. I had never lived on a farm before. I must admit that I found my new surroundings quite intriguing. There were chickens to chase, woods to explore and a family who was always there due to the demands of farming.

Now I was glad Joe had that paper route. He saved enough money to come out to visit me almost every Sunday on the trolley that ran from Erie to Buffalo. I imagined him getting off at the stop down the hill. I pictured him coming up the hill and thought of him seeing the iron rooster on top of Horlocher’s barn which told him he was almost there. I of course was not a real Horlocher but after a while that did not seem to matter. I was part of their family and still had Joe as a friend.

After a while Joe did not come to see me quite as often. I knew he was beginning high school and thought he might be starting to spend more time with Winnie. After all, he did seem to be making a habit of carrying her books home, which I admit did make me at least a little jealous. But he did bring her with him once in a while to visit me. I guess friendships come and go. I was his best friend for a while and was glad to have had our time together. I often wonder though if things would have turned out different if I were born a cat rather than a dog.

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